King and Lionheart
by JustValiant1717
Summary: "Happy Hunger Games, Ed," my older brother says dryly, his fingers making quick work of his worn shoelaces. "And may the odds..." I swallow, still shaken from the grotesque twist in my usually tranquil story. "Be ever in our favor." Co-written with CoffeeRanger (spiritual sister/beta extraordinaire). Crossover with S. Collin's THG. Hopefully the right blend of the films and books.
1. Sons of Adam: Part One

IN MY DREAMS THERE'S ALWAYS A LION—golden, larger than life, and basically an embodiment of the word "magnificent."

Truly, the black-and-white picture of a lion in my dog-eared science textbook is a gross depiction of the majestic creature that so graciously appears in my dreams almost each night. We've been taught as little children that the lion is the savage king of the jungle – that it must be feared for its ferocity and insatiable hunger for its prey's blood. I have no doubt that my Lion isn't a tame one. He has this look in his eyes, the kind that makes you wonder if he was a witness to the world exploding into existence, and if he despaired as it spiraled down into the cesspit that I like to call "the present."

Yet for all his untamed glory there is no fear in my heart, just pure wonderment – _reverence_. If I had any control over my dreams, I would genuflect at his paws. It's the feeling that constantly blooms in my chest every time I set my eyes upon him. But as it stands, he isn't the one being honored in my dreams.

It's me.

Fourteen-year-old Edmund Leonidas – a lanky, pasty-faced illegal hunter from the 12th district of a god-forsaken country called Charn. Far into the west of District 12 is a great wood. This is where my Lion honors me every time we meet in my sleep.

The overwhelming yet completely humbling ritual is as follows: he lays a strong, heavy paw on my shoulder, recites at least five noble titles (that I seem to know by heart in my dream state, but _can't_ seem to recall when I'm awake) that would cause even the pompous president of my country to blush , until a blurry person (or is it animal?) walks toward us to place a silver crown embellished with birch leaves atop my head. My Lion does the same to three other blurry figures on either side of me, two girls and one boy as far as I can tell, and every time he walks toward one of them, the landscape changes from the Great Western Wood to something equally majestic. Again, I forget what the exact scenery are when I'm awake, but if I think hard enough, I conjure images of a clear sky the color of my older brother Peter's eyes, a glistening turquoise sea, and an early morning sun that manages to be radiant and gentle to the sight at the same time.

Tonight is one of those nights when I'm being exalted for a battle I never fought, a sacrifice I never made, and a power I have no business to even contemplate. I sorely need to lay prostate before my great Lion, but yet again he insists on heaping praises upon my stubborn little head (I lost count of how many times Peter complained about how I _never_ do as I'm told), so I sit on the omnipresent throne and wait for the blurry animal-like person holding my crown.

But as I lift my chin to try and make sense of his features, I am met with a face that doesn't—shouldn't—exist in my world of purity and utter magnificence. Just as I never truly see the others' faces in this plane of existence, hers is a face that I will never forget.

She looks at me, the hate contorting her features freezing the blood in my veins. I look to my Lion for salvation, only to find that I am no longer in the Great Western Wood, but the perilous wood west of District 12. She lifts her hunting knife, just as she had over a year ago, as we fought tooth and nail for the right over the beautiful white stag I'd trapped fair and square, and plunged it mercilessly into my stomach.

I see something I didn't see the first time this happened—Peter screaming out my name, but it was painfully slow and no sound came out of his mouth.

I bolt upright on my bed before the dying vision of myself could crumple to the ground.

"Happy Hunger Games, Ed," my older brother says dryly, his fingers making quick work of his worn shoelaces. He's already dressed smartly for the "single-most important event of every citizen's life."

"And may the odds..." I swallow, still shaken from the grotesque twist in my usually tranquil story. "Be ever in our favor."

Notes:

 **No beta, so all the errors you saw are mine. I've wanted to write this crossover story for as long as I can remember but never summoned the confidence to do so... until now. I'm still extremely apprehensive, but I'm also hopeful that someone out there will give this one a chance. Reviews are highly appreciated but not required. For any question/clarification/violent reaction please feel free to send me a personal message. Thank you all. To God be the glory now and for eternity!**


	2. Sons of Adam: Part Two

_With all my heart, thanks to all of you who read, followed, and reviewed the first chapter of King and Lionheart! Shoutout to **Daughter of Eve3** who was so kind and gracious in her comments ever since I gave Narnia fanfiction a try with "Thorns and Roses Red." It warms my soul to think that in an increasingly hateful and jugmental world that would sooner dish out sarcasm and negativity for the sake of "being true to myself" and "being real", people who genuinely seek to lift others up still exist. Thank you so much, sweet darling! God bless you!_

 _Thank you so much, **i'm not the nerd. you are** and **Narniaguest12**! Your enthusiasm for this story makes me feel so happy and blessed. Thank you, thank you, **Bronze Cat**! And to_ answer _your question-yes, the title of this story was inspired by the Of Monster's and Men's song. I apologize to anyone who was miffed by my lack of disclaimers. I'll put all of them at the bottom of the story this time._

 _Thank you, **Wildhorses1492** , for saying that this story was very well written. I'm not a professional writer and I will probably commit mistakes that will irk beta readers frequently, but at the end of the day, my goal is to write for a fandom that's been a huge part of my life since I was 12 (I'm 22 now, if you must know). I love the world of Narnia and I always will! _

_Finally, thank you, **Anonymous,** for pointing out that crossovers go in crossovers, not the main archive. Believe it or not, I'm actually not new to fanfiction. My first stints as an author here were a few **Dark Angel** (James Cameron, 2002) and **Supernatural** (Eric Kripke, 2005) main/crossover stories-three of which I deleted. Actually, if you look up "snowwhitequeen494" under Writer, you'll see my old Dark Angel story "A New Way to Bleed." The reason why I chose not to continue my [crossover] stories is that my crossovers tend to have significantly less readers compared to the "pure" Dark Angel of Supernatural ones. I'm sure that's not the case at all for other talented writers, but this is true for me, for some reason. Now I know I said reviews are not required, but I would be lying if I said receiving them does not fill my with sweet energy and inspiration. So here's my Narnia/Hunger Games in the main archives-and I hope that isn't too much of an issue for you guys. Please let my story stay where I believe it's more visible. :)_

 _Lastly, I sincerely apologize for the long opening notes and the looooooooooong wait. I work as a legal compliance staff for a manufacturing company that sells to defense technology companies and the likes. As you can imagine, there's not much leeway for me to write during my free time and be complacent. But please give me a chance to find my rhyhtm, and I promise I'll try to update at a more decent speed. :)_

 _So, without further ado..._

 **SONS OF ADAM: PART 2**

A COMMON ADVERSARY UNITES EVEN THE GREATEST OF ENEMIES, or in our case, a pair of estranged brothers.

I can't remember the last time I breathed a word to Edmund over the past year, what with him having betrayed my trust, even as I tried to protect him. But today is different. It's the day of the Reaping for the 70th Hunger Games. And with Edmund's name going into the ballot four times instead of three, thanks to his traitorous act of signing up for a teserae even after swearing on our deceased father's soul that he wouldn't, I think it's high time to break the wall of ice I built between my brother and me—or at least create a hole big enough for us to communicate. After all, it's still hard for me to look him in the eye. He knew exactly what increasing his chances of being drawn for the Games would do to me, and he did it anyway.

But as mentioned, today is the Reaping, and though his four entries pale in comparison to mine—a grand total of twelve slips of paper with the name "Peter Leonidas"—I still worry a great deal. My breath feels funny in my lungs. Perhaps this is what it feels like to have asthma. The air catches in my throat at the thought.

"You feeling all right, Ed?" My eyes rake in his features for any sign of illness. Edmund hasn't had an asthma attack since he was nine, but he hasn't stopped breathing hard since he woke up. His reply to the first words I said in a long while sounded strained, too. It also could have been because of the shock of hearing me address him. Still, I'm not taking any chances. "You look awful."

He gives his head a little shake, vaguely reminding me of a wet dog, as he fills a cup with tap water at the sink. "Just a bad dream" is all he says, before setting the cup on our splinter-riddled oak table and pretending to be fascinated with the imperfections on the wood. Ah, classic Edmund Leonidas, avoiding the subject of his well-being.

I breathe deeply through the nose and take a seat adjacent to his, breaking the sad loaf of bread that may very well be the last meal we will share together. His eyes flit to mine for a second, before refocusing on the splinters that I'm worried will prick his forefinger if he doesn't stop picking on them. "Guess you're not up to talking then."

He gives a sarcastic little laugh that reverberates as he drinks from his glass. "I thought it was you who didn't want to talk for the rest of our lives."

There was a melancholy to his tone that should have made me repentant, not defensive. "I thought it was you who asked for it! You took a teserae, even though you swore on our father's grave that you wouldn't!"

"Yeah, because my big brother was ill at the time and I thought, well, better one more entry in the Games than hunt alone in the wood, without Peter shadowing me every step of the way!"

This new information is such a shock that I just gape at him, a ridiculous look he would have teased me for if he wasn't busy fighting back tears, if the continuous bobbing of his Adam's apple is any indication. I never thought he had been considerate enough not to risk venturing in the wood alone, even though he'd told me a thousand times before that he could handle a hunt on his own. All along I thought he had used my illness as an excuse to prove a point—to show our mother that I wasn't the only selfless, dependable man in the house.

And now here we stand (or sit at a shaky, splintered table that seems to be a metaphor for what became of—what I made of—our relationship), only two hours into the Reaping, with barely a hundred words spoken to each other for a year. I wanted to envelop Edmund in a crushing embrace then and there, put the splinters back together with an apology, and promise that I will never doubt his intentions again. Instead I cough, force a coarse piece of bread down my throat, and say nothing for a while.

"This bad dream you just had, is it about the woman who stabbed you?" I say when I find my tongue once more.

"Yeah, but not quite. I don't want to talk about it, Peter. And I know neither do you."

It's true. My little brother getting stabbed is the last thing I want to recall at a time as bleak as this. But even though I make an effort to suppress these memories, I can still see him falling lifelessly to the ground, as if it happened only an hour ago.

The golden summer sun was at its most beautiful when Edmund nearly died in my arms. Green leaves rained down on us like the tears of trees. The rejuvenating scent of grass damp with morning dew mingled with the odour of blood—Edmund's blood. For all the gruesome detail that I claim to remember, I don't recall any sound... except the sound of my brother's gasping breaths.

Rumours of the mythical white stag running loose in the wood spread throughout District 12 like wildfire, and Edmund, claiming that I was the greatest hunter he had ever seen, was confident that we would catch the creature even before the rich, expertly-equipped blokes of upper-crust Charn could. He must have been flabbergasted when he managed to track the stag down and trap it all by himself, while "the greatest hunter I've ever seen" was walking around aimlessly several feet away. A smile broke into my face as I caught sight of him, looking at his squirming catch as if it had grown another head on top of being white as snow, only to be replaced by an identical look of shock laced not with wonderment, but paralyzing fear.

Someone, a ridiculously tall woman with dirty blonde hair, ghostly pale skin and deep dark eyes materialized seemingly out of thin air. In her hand she held a dagger poised directly at my brother. She wanted the stag for herself, that much was clear, and she would stoop so low as to threaten a child with violence. I willed myself to move, to place myself between Edmund and the hostile stranger, but my feet seemed to be nailed to the ground, so as Edmund opened his mouth to claim what is rightfully his, I could only watch in terror as the witch of a woman pulled her hand back and stabbed my brother clean on the stomach. He hasn't even fallen on the ground when the witch started dragging our prize away.

It was only when I saw his blood-stained mouth form my name did my feet move with inhuman speed. I hugged him tightly against me, as if doing so would keep him from bleeding his life away. When a pain-filled cry proved that the action did more harm than good, I pulled away, laid him flat on his back, and clamped on the gaping wound with both hands as hard as I could. This tore a greater scream of agony from him, but it was a necessary evil to save his life.

"Come on, Ed," I pleaded, pressing his clammy hand against my chest as I urged him to mimic my breathing. "In and out. In and out. Ed, please, we didn't hide your asthma from the officers so you can go out like this!"

Chronic illnesses like asthma, diabetes, epilepsy and the likes usually warranted "mercy killing" in sweet, sweet District 12 once an officer finds out. There had been a close call once, when Edmund was six, and the pompous ass of a P.E. teacher thought he was training a platoon of soldiers instead of malnourished kids barely heavier than toddlers. Being the smart kid that he was, Edmund remembered old Mister Cornish who lived next to us. The wrinkled fan-maker never came back home from the hospital after being brought by the officers to be "treated" for his persistent pneumonia. Young though we were, we knew he didn't die of his illness, he had been shot in the head deep within the wood.

So when Edmund felt his lungs constricting, saw his fingertips turning blue, he bit his tongue and braved the remaining couple of hours before lunch time. When I made a beeline for the table we shared every day, he was hunched over a large volume of book—feigning deep interest in a pack of hyenas etched on the discoloured pages when he was, in fact, hiding the laboured heaving of his chest. His smile was a thin purple line when I grabbed his chin and manoeuvred his face toward mine.

I made my voice jovial and slung him over my shoulder. To the apathetic eye, we looked like a couple of brothers having a playful wrestle. As soon as we'd laughed and jostled our way to the bathroom, I emptied my paper bag of its meagre content and shoved it quickly against his gasping mouth, remembering how our mother had run straight to the kitchen cupboards for an undamaged brown bag, breathing in and out of it upon learning about our father's demise. It took about half an hour before his breaths ease up, and even then I hoped I'd made friends with the eccentric pair of sisters at school who had an apothecary for a mother—the Pevensie girls.

As if the girls weren't interesting enough, what with their calm demeanour, fairly regal aura, and natural ability in archery and knife-throwing (Ed and I saw them in the wood once, and had a wordless understanding that we'll ask them about working together someday), rumour has it that then five-year-old Lucy Pevensie had found the enchanted fire flower—with the help of what people refer to as her "imaginary talking lion friend." The magical healing properties of the fire flower juice have been the stuff of legends and fairy tales across Charn just as long as the Hunger Games has been a reality.

The Pevensies didn't come, fire flower juice in their hands, during Ed's close call at school. They did, however, appear out of the blue when my brother had been stabbed for the aforementioned hunting feat. Just when his breaths became fainter and farther in between, and his hands turned too cold for me to bear, Susan and Lucy Pevensie, in all their gracefully disheveled glory, came sprinting toward me and my dying sibling with blue eyes (identical to mine) seized with fear.

With a gentleness that belied the frantic beating of the pulse in her neck, Susan placed Edmund's head on her lap, tilted his face slightly, and nodded at Lucy. With hands that were too steady to belong to a little girl, she poured one small drop of a rich red liquid from a glass flask into my brother's mouth. He let out a shuddering breath, and then his eyes fluttered shut. He was gone. For about ten seconds his face was slack, his whole body motionless...

And then he started coughing and sputtering, breathing deep as his eyes popped open. It was only then that I realized I was holding my own breath. A sob tore from my soul in lieu of an exhale as I enveloped him in a suffocating embrace. I'd never felt such potent fear until then—not even when I'd heard that our father was in the coal mines when it collapsed. So relieved was I to hold my living, breathing little brother close that when I pulled away from Edmund's still trembling form, I realized that his saviours had gone. I tried to get close to the sisters in the days that followed, but they seemed bent on avoiding me—even though a quick twinkle would flash in the younger Pevensie's eye whenever I got close. I couldn't blame them. I was a witness to the fire flower's miracle. I could very well repay their kindness by putting them at risk, just like I'd endangered my younger—only—sibling's life when I'd let him hunt the exotic stag.

Edmund's pained grunt as a splinter finally pierced his forefinger jolted me back to the present. Before, I would have given him a good-natured smirk and removed the splinter myself. Before, Edmund would have accused that I enjoyed his misery too much and then willingly give me his hand, anyway. Now, I just finish my bread and stand—too guilty to face the fact that I brought this estrangement upon myself.

The Reaping hasn't changed much in the past seven years. Save for a bunch of twelve-year-olds who look scared out of their minds, the kids crossing their fingers against a live, full-colour death on television are almost the same—if a bit older and sicker of the Games this year than they were the last. There's sixteen-year-old Kevan Fawcett, whose older brother would have been nineteen today and free from partaking in this morbid ceremony if he hadn't volunteered to take his younger brother's place last year.

You see, volunteering is allowed and encouraged at the Reaping. It doesn't matter if the kid begging to take someone else's place is painfully young—the Capitol's devils will sensationalize this heartbreaking turn, as if it's the purest thing in the world for a child to die in a sibling's place.

Children volunteering to take an older tribute's place is practically unheard of in District 12, but in wealthier Districts like 1 and 2, there are those who are bred to be Careers—well-fed, well-maintained boys and girls who train long before they're eligible to sign the mandatory Capitol forms. Needless to say, there's enough volunteering going around in the upper-class to make the media pundits jump on their manufactured asses. Never mind that training for the Games is illegal and punishable by public flogging. Everything's hunky-dory so long as the Capitol folks are entertained.

I peel my eyes from Kevan's dejected form before my mental tirade could erupt from my mouth. Oh yes—saying anything against the Capitol is like asking for a sniper to bury a bullet in your brain. There's a memory, apart from the ones I share with my parents and Edmund, which jumps at the forefront of all memories every time I think about my childhood.

 _A man with mahogany skin and gray hair. Five words spoken like a battle cry. "For Narnia! And for Aslan!" Two bullets on either side of the man's skull._

I shake my head to rid myself of the revolting image.

I see the Ackler twins, Harrah and Deshna, holding onto each other for dear life. Unbidden, a vision of one twin being reaped and torn from the other takes my mind by storm, and it was all I could do not to puke over the flimsy rope keeping me contained with other eighteen-year-olds. I take deep, calming breaths and turn to look at Heron instead—a boy whose sad smile still manages to throw sparks of light across the herd of fifteen-year-olds. I turn my head to the left and see Anslee, a sweet twelve-year-old girl who always snuck in a few chunks of white cheese every time I bought some from their stall. I turn my head to the right and there stands Ro, a thirteen-year-old boy who wrestles at school but saved birds and kittens in the wood when he thought no one saw him.

One boy. One girl. Any one of their gender could be the next lifeless body to water the artificial meadows of the Capitol's arena.

I look everywhere, taking everyone in and avoiding one—that one kid whose lily-white complexion and unruly dark hair make him stand out like a sore digit among the chaps of fourteen years. I didn't speak to him for a year. He isn't going to get picked. He _must_ not get picked.

"Ladies first!" A chipper voice heavy with the Capitol's dubious, affected accent brought me back to the Reaping site. I must have looked at everyone (except for one) at least three times for me to have missed Caspian Telmar, the first and only District 12 victor who won 13 years ago, trudging with his trademark heartsick look to the stage. His eyes comb the crowd of potential protégés—or in our case, new blood in his hands—not unlike the way I did earlier. Briefly, his eyes meet mine, and I must have imagined it, but I thought I saw him nod in acknowledgement.

I barely have time to contemplate this gesture as Tyla Manx, the Capitol's appointed hostess for District 12's Reaping ceremony this year, yelled a girl's name with egregious enthusiasm into the microphone.

"Lucy Pevensie!"

DISCLAIMERS:

 **** Everything that's familiar belongs to either C.S. Lewis or Suzanne Collins ****

 **** Credits go to Of Monsters and Men for the story's title ****

 **** Any annoying deviation from Lewis's or Collins's established canons (e.g., original terms and world-building elements, especially on the Hunger Games side of things) is a result of gaps in my memory and my inability to go back to reading books at the moment due to my job. Please feel free to correct me in the reviews. Honestly, criticims are more than welcome. :) ****

TO GOD BE THE GLORY!


	3. Daughters of Eve: Part One

_Again, with a humble heart, thank you so much to all of you who reviewed. You guys have no idea how strong and confident you make me. May God rain blessings upon all of you._

 _ **ChecktheGate -**_ _You have such a cool pen name. It warms my heart to know that you're really invested in this story. Thank you so much!_

 _ **Narniaguest12**_ _\- Again, thank you so much for the review! And I'm as much a fan of protective Peter as you are. :) Expect a lot of protective older siblings in this story!_

 _ **CoffeeRanger**_ _\- As per our PM back-and-forth, I'm so relieved that you lean more towards NO PAIRINGS. I might as well say this:_

 _ **There will be no ships in this story-at least not among Peter, Susan, Edmund and Lucy.**_

 _Thank you so much for your enthusiasm and encouraging words! Reading your PMs and reviews have blessed me so much!_

 _ **I'm not the nerd. you are**_ _\- Many thanks for loving everything so far! :)_

 _Last but not the least..._

 _ **Daughter of Eve3**_ _\- Thank you for everything! And thank you for writing_ _ **Battle of Fear and Trust**_ _. Such a good story! If you guys haven't read my friend's work, please do check it out! And oh-kudos for figuring the major stuff out on this one! ;-)_

 _Again, no beta, so anything irksome grammar-wise is an oversight on my part. I also wrote this at around 3:00 a.m. on my side of the globe so it might not be as coherent as I thought it was while I was writing it. But actually, this is the chapter I had the most fun writing so far. I really hope you'll love reading it as much as I loved writing it._

 _On with the story. :)_

 **Chapter Three - Daughters of Eve: Part One**

I REMEMBER HIM GETTING STABBED AS IF IT WAS YESTERDAY. There was an explosion of pain across my chest—an unbearable sensation I couldn't rationalize, what with the boy being a complete stranger to me. Yet, at that moment, it didn't even matter if his older companion (his brother, if the look of pure, unadulterated fear was anything to go by) risked our lives by blabbing about the miracle of the fire flower afterwards.

I'm _no_ stranger to blood and gore. In fact, soon after our father died, I took it upon myself to keep my family alive by hunting down game in the wood. It wasn't until the third week of our father's death, however, that I would realize my unparalleled talent in archery. Without my father's green thumb to usher them to life, the sweet potatoes and mushrooms in our backyard started wilting, and as they declined, so did my sister's health. Lucy never cried because of hunger, but it didn't make me less determined to learn the art of hunting, of being a predator, so I could put meat on the table.

Nevertheless, as soon as the boy started breathing again twelve seconds after Lucy had administered the healing cordial, I ran away as if I'd never seen blood my whole life, my sister close to my heels, to empty my stomach of its meager content. I couldn't stand to look at his bloodied state, or watch as still fresh blood clung to his older brother's shirt as they embraced, or hear a speech about what could have happened if we hadn't arrived. I could only watch from a distance as their heads swiveled back and forth, clearly searching for their saviors. If it wasn't for Lucy hugging my waist to provide comfort, I would have fallen to my knees.

Hearing Tyla Manx announce that Lucy will represent our district in this bloodbath accomplishes what these memories did not. My knees buckle and I fall, the breath leaving my body altogether. The pain in my chest seeps like venom in my soul. My sister, my sweet little Lucy who can throw knives with lethal accuracy but refuses to kill pesky rodents, my baby sister whose eyes fill with wonderment every time I tell her stories about make-believe creatures in a make-believe world… My Lucy…. The only reason I didn't stay under the covers to die from starvation when our father passed on.

She walks toward the stage, every step radiating grace and dignity despite the unmistakable paleness of her face. And then, like a thief in the night, without reason or rhyme, my vision of Lucy walking to a harrowing fate changes abruptly to one of splendor. Figures of impossible height stand in two straight rows on either side of her, their silver swords forming an inverted V as they bear it over their heads while she walks toward an ornate chair. A red cape fringed with golden embroidery flaps behind her with each step, and the silver circlet sitting atop her head winks at me from my position at the back of a throne room awash with golden sunlight. When she turns around, her eyes find mine and she extends a hand. "Oh, Susan. Do come here. You belong here, too!"

I put one foot forward to oblige this—this queenly vision of my little sister, just as a grotesquely white hand with jet-black nails lands on her shoulder. The vision shatters like glass and I am back to the Reaping site. Back to the reality that my sister might die.

"I volunteer!" I yell with all my might, even though my knees are still planted on the ground. "I volunteer!" I say a second time, finally picking myself up and drawing myself to my full height. Out of the corner of my eye, I see the Leonidas brothers exchange panicked expressions. I nearly laugh. What can they possibly do for me now? Are they genuinely distraught, or just mortified that they won't be able to settle the debt now that I have one foot on the grave?

And then it hit me. If I should die in the Games, they could to take care of Lucy in my stead. I nod and force a smile for them before storming toward a grossly enthusiastic Tyla Manx.

Beside her, Lucy is wailing and basically throwing a fit. "Susan, no!"

I give her the fiercest hug I can manage. "Be a good girl now, Lucy." I pull away and fix a stern gaze at Edmund Leonidas. It's vile, but I hope the meaning of the look gets through to him. _You owe Lucy your life._

He gives me a stiff nod and approaches us, dragging a hysterical Lucy away from the stage.

"My, my, what a dramatic start to the Reaping ceremony! What's your name, doll?" Tyla asks, her excitement radiating off her like deathly volts of electricity. What I wouldn't give to see this woman electrocuted.

"Susan Pevensie," I answer dryly, looking at all the faces before me—except for one. I am _not_ going to cry in front of this buffoon of a hostess and her kind who are surely buzzing with glee back at the Capitol.

"Sisters, then! Let's give it up for Lucy Pevensie's brave older sister, Susan Pevensie!"

Tyla's order is greeted by a silence so loud, the apathy nearly kills me. And then, just as I'm about to relinquish control over my tears, a girl I don't even recognize moves plaintively. She rubs a closed fist over her heart and raises it in the air.

 _Take heart, Lionheart._

Soon enough, nearly everyone in the crowd follows suit. I don't know why they are doing it. I definitely go through great lengths to make Lucy and myself scarce wherever we are. And then I remember—how people would melt like snow at the palm of Lucy's hands with just a smile from her. They are doing this because they all care for Lucy. The tears fall, not from disappointment or sadness, but from overflowing gratitude.

I move to mimic the gesture and pay my sister's supporters in kind, but the Capitol clown steps in front of me, a tinge of panic in her voice as she orders Caspian Telmar to "get the ball rolling again and pick a male tribute!"

Caspian, whose presence I've forgotten until now, plunges a hand inside the glass bowl housing the boys' entries. His solemn manner of saying the male tribute's name is a stark juxtaposition to Tyla's infuriating verve.

"Peter Leonidas."

For the second time this morning, my breath abandons me. Heaven knows I wouldn't wish being a tribute upon my worst enemy, but why must one of them get picked?

More importantly, why do these brothers' problems weigh on me to the point of breathlessness? Shouldn't I be relieved that someone who owes me and Lucy will be coming with me to the Hunger Games? He might make a valuable ally, or even waver at the prospect of slitting my throat. Besides, we're little more than acquaintances. They shouldn't matter to me. We already saved the younger one once, there's no moral obligation whatsoever to even contemplate their welfare. Lucy's welfare _is_ all that matters. If I allow myself to care at this point, I'll be placing myself in a vulnerable position. I have to at least try to make it back home. To win. For my sister.

Peter's Leonidas's face is as white as a sheet as he breaks away from the throng of eighteen-year-old boys. When a tremulous "I volunteer!" rings in the air once more, there is absolutely no way to describe his pallor. A lifetime's worth of emotions flit across his cerulean eyes as the owner of the voice slowly sets himself apart from his age group to join us.

 _Traitor_ —his eyes seem to say. _You little traitor_.

As an older sister who just essentially threw her life away so that my younger sibling would live, I wholeheartedly agree with him.

* **** I own nothing except the characters or situations not found on C.S. Lewis's or Suzanne Collins' books *****

 *****Credits go to Of Monsters and Men for the title*****

 *****Any inconsistency/deviation from established canons (e.g., original terms or main ideas, world-building elements, especially on the Hunger Games side of things) is a result of certain gaps in my memories and my inability to read the books at the moment because of my job as a military trade analyst.*****

 *****Criticisms and violent reactions are more than welcome-they are encouraged. So feel free to correct me if you believe I'm not doing something right.*****

 **TO GOD BE THE GLORY!**


	4. Daughters of Eve: Part Two

_Once again, with all my heart, thanks to all the readers and reviewers both old and new! Especially my dears,_ _ **Daughter of Eve3 (PLEASE READ AND REVIEW HER STORY "BATTLE OF FEAR AND TRUST"! IT'S SOOOO GREAT!)**_ _and_ _ **CoffeeRanger**_ _! Your lengthy reviews, personal messages and deep interest in this story have made me feel confident and happy in ways I can't articulate._

 _I would also like to apologize for taking so long to update. I will be honest, at some point I was overcome with the idea that this story is not good enough and I should just ask for the few interested readers' email addresses, send them each chapter, and then just discontinue the story here. But then I realized that I'm not doing this to be a good writer or storyteller, but to express my love for Narnia and honor the beloved timeless characters C.S. Lewis created. As a result, I finished this chapter. I hope you'll love it and perhaps... let me know what you think/what you want in the reviews/PMs?_

 _I know there's not much going on and I basically just retold the reaping from Lucy's point of view, and perhaps the pace is frustrating for fans of such action-packed novels as Narnia and the Hunger Games, but I promise I will do my best to overcome these weaknesses and deliver a story that just keeps getting better with each chapter._

 _Once again, thank you so much for reading/reviewing. May God shower you with peace, blessings and love!_

 _Chapter Four: Daughters of Eve: Part Two_

YOU ARE A QUEEN, A VALIANT QUEEN. I told myself these words as I approach the stage where Caspian Telmar and Tyla Manx stand waiting for me; a dazzling smile on Tyla's face and a look akin to heartbreak on Caspian's. I was only twelve years old—the youngest person to be reaped for the games in a long while. Small wonder such an occurrence is very rare, given that twelve-year-olds normally have one—two, if they took a tesserae—entries in the ballot. I promised my sister, Susan, that I would never take a tesserae, and much as it pains me to see her take one every time she renews her registration, I made good with my promise. I never want to do anything that will hurt my sister—the greatest person I know and the only older sibling I'll ever have.

But now I've been reaped despite my singular entry, and I know I've hurt Susan more than anyone ever has—even more than father did when he suddenly passed away and left us all alone.

You are a Queen, a Valiant Queen. I whispered to myself once more as my feet touch the platform. The Great Lion, Aslan, told me as much in my dreams. A brave-hearted queen does not break down and weep at something that hasn't even happened yet. I don't know what this journey holds for me, and I'm certainly not without fear, but He will keep me safe, just as He's kept Susan safe as she hunts for our daily sustenance, just as He kept me alive after an illness overcame me after our father's death, and just as He showed me the way to the life-saving fire flower that saved Edmund Leonidas' life.

Shudders wrack my body for the first time since being called as the hostess's hands land on my shoulder. I'm about to move away from her when someone's tremulous voice stills my entire being.

"I volunteer! I volunteer!"

Susan's knees are planted on the cement, her face is flushed as if she's about to be sick. I press a hand against my mouth, about to be sick myself. Oh, how foolish of me! Of course, Susan would volunteer to take my place! _Oh, Susan_.

She stands up and strides toward us, a look of sheer defiance on her face, and for a moment it's not Susan Pevensie that I see, but Queen Susan—gentle but deadly in her determination to keep her precious charge safe. She's wearing a billowing, bright lilac dress that reaches up to her toes, but over it is a chain mail made of light material, and over the mail is an armor made of tough leather. She's always been beautiful, my older sister, but now she looks every bit a warrior queen even without a crown.

She reaches me, and once again she's just my sister, sixteen-year-old Susan whose freckles stand starkly against her pale, frightened face. I move to throw my arms around her waist, but she seizes me firmly by the shoulders and whispers, "Be a good girl now, Lucy."

The next thing I know, I'm being carried away from Susan. I scream and lash out at the person holding me securely against his bony chest, and feel a pang of guilt when my limbs collide on thin flesh. Looking up, I realize that it's Edmund Leonidas. Truth be told, I always feel a sense of longing every time I see one of the Leonidas brothers. For the longest time, I've felt as if we know—should know—him and his older brother, Peter. His very close brush with death still gives me nightmares, and the grateful looks Peter gave me at school every time our paths crossed warm my heart. But at this moment, I want nothing more than for them to leave me alone and let me stay with my sister.

Edmund puts me down next to him among the crowd of fourteen-year-olds. He doesn't say anything and just watches Susan with a distraught look on his face. Through the veil of tears, I look back at my sister. A look of utter despair crosses her usually gentle features for a second, and then she's back to scowling at our current predicament. Her response when the Capitol lady asks for her name is tinged with annoyance, causing a smile to tug at the corners of my lips despite myself. There's the fire that I saw while she was approaching the stage! Susan's got a lot of fight in her!

However, when the crowd is asked to acknowledge Susan's bravery for taking my place, they do nothing. My heart plummets to my feet with sympathy for my sister. They don't know, they have no idea how wonderful a sister, a second mother Susan Pevensie is!

And then they rub their clenched fists above their hearts and raise them in the air.

 _Take heart, Lionheart._

An old gesture of love and deep respect among the dwellers of District 12. Our history teacher demonstrated it and discussed its significance once. The following day, a different person stood in front of our history class, and we never heard what became of him since.

My tears flow in earnest and Edmund puts an awkward yet comforting hand on my shoulder, his other hand raised in the air with the rest of the crowd. I see the beginnings of a meltdown on my sister's face, but she manages to steel herself. She moves to return the display of love, but is rudely interrupted by a nervous-looking Tyla Manx, who then orders Caspian to make himself useful and get the ball rolling for the male tribute.

Caspian does as he is told, his expression that of a petulant child who's just been told to do something he doesn't want to. His words, soft and emphatic as they are compared to Tyla's when she announced my name, sends a painful shock straight through my chest.

"Peter Leonidas."

Peter Leonidas. Edmund Leonidas's sweet, caring brother who seems intent on getting to know us as much as I wish to know them. Peter, whose look of utter despair when he held his dying brother in his arms is carved in my heart forever—like a scar that will never heal. Peter, the boy who makes me wish I have an older brother (older brothers, for Edmund is just as endearing in his own way), even though I have a perfect sister in Susan's person.

He walks away from his own age group and approaches the stage. And just as it was when Susan covered the same distance, I see him in a noble, dignified manner. In full armor of red, silver and gold, he looks every bit the king that I imagined every time my sister told me stories about royal people who lived in a magical land. He was magnificent, and I would have wanted to bask in his splendor if it isn't for a boy yelling right next to me.

"I volunteer!"

Edmund Leonidas.

"Edmund, no!" I hear myself scream, but he is already striding feverishly to join his brother and my sister where they stand. He moves so quickly that I barely see glimpses of the armor-clad warrior that he is deep down. My breath freezes in my lungs. Surely, the wavering vision isn't indicative of a fleeting life. It can't be.

Peter seizes his younger brother by the collar of his shirt the moment he's within his reach. Tyla lets out a horrified scream as Caspian tries to dislodge Peter's vice-like grip, but the older Leonidas boy held on, red-faced, shaking with rage and looking murderous.

"I'm going to kill you!" Peter snarled, his knuckles turning white as he shook his brother like a rag doll. "You bloody idiot! Why! I could kill you right now!"

"Let go of him," my sister says urgently, tugging at Peter's oversized shirt. "Peter, let go of your brother. You can't hurt a tribute before the games. They'll punish you!"

Realization hits Peter like a merciless avalanche.

It hits me true in the chest like one of Susan's arrows.

 _You can't hurt a tribute._

 _A tribute. His brother Edmund is a tribute._

 _My sister Susan is a tribute._

And Peter and I can do nothing but watch them fight the bloodiest battle of their lives.

 _There is something you can do, Valiant Queen, you and the Magnificent King. Take heart, Lionhearts._

 *****I own nothing except characters and situations not found on C.S. Lewis's and Suzanne Collins's works*****

 *****There will be no ships/pairings in this story-at least not among Peter, Susan, Edmund, and Lucy*****

 *****Credits to Of Monsters and Men for inspiring me to write this story with their beautiful music.*****

 *****Any inconsistency/deviation from established canons (e.g., terms or ideas, world-building elements, especially on the Hunger Games side of things) is a result of my inability to re-read the books at the moment due to my hectic job.*****

 *****No beta. I apologize for any frustrating/irritating grammatical errors.*****

 **TO GOD BE THE GLORY FOREVER AND EVER!**


	5. The Younger Son of Adam

**IMPORTANT NOTES:**

The lovely **CoffeeRanger** wrote a story called " **A Brother's Sorrow** " and it precedes this chapter. I strongly recommend that you guys **read** that story first for two reasons:

1\. It's an absolute masterpiece that is guaranteed to tug painfully at your heartstrings. **CoffeeRanger** (whom I have taken to calling my little "Ed-Lu" as I am here "Pete-Su") has such a way with words. She takes your breath away with her attention to detail, her ability to magnify the characters' emotions no matter how they try to hide them from both the readers and their loved ones, and she's blessed with the ability to capture and pen all the things that made us love these characters in the first place. Read and review, if you please. I promise you—I bet my copies of the Narnia novels –you won't regret it.

2\. This chapter might get a bit confusing without reading **A Brother's Sorrow** first. I didn't bother adding what she wrote on this chapter because I really want you guys to check the story out in its entirety. Do it. Look her up and read her story!

Also, let it be known that 90% of the brilliance you will see in this chapter is her doing. We've decided to help each other out Pevensie siblings-style in writing this story. And I can't thank God every day for her unparalleled talent, passion for this story, and her heartwarming kindness. *Hugs to my Ed-Lu*

 **Bronze Cat** – thank you, thank you very kindly for the words of encouragement! It really helped me get past the insecurities and believe in myself more. To answer your question: there really isn't any major reason. I just didn't want to change Lucy's surname. Lucy Pevensie is the character I'll try not to change at all in this crossover/AU story, because she's beautiful and powerful just the way she is. That's not to say I plan to stray from the hearts of the other Pevensies/characters, of course. I just don't feel comfortable changing Lucy's surname. Does that make sense?

 **Guest –** Please be assured that CoffeeRanger and I have something EPIC planned for Peter and Lucy. You might even say their roles are far more important than Edmund and Susan's. And they won't be reduced to characters like Katniss's and Peeta's family members. They'll appear as often as Ed and Su, I promise you that.

 **Narniaguest12** – It warms my heart to know that you check every day if this story's been updated. Thank you so much for the love!

 **ChecktheGate** – I still think you have the cutest penname ever! Thank you so much for all the encouragement and the high praise!

 **Saltonwounds –** You're very kind. I'm so relieved that you think we managed to mesh the two words perfectly. Thank you very, very much! And yes! We have BIG things up our sleeves!

Last but not the least, my dearest friend, the very talented **Daughters of Eve3** – thank you for being there for me from the very beginning! Thank you for your kind words and advice. Most of all, THANK YOU for writing **Battle of Fear and Trust.** Everyone, if you haven't already, please read my friend's work. It's such a compelling story about Susan's fall from grace and (hopefully!) her sweet triumph over her demons!

Alas, I give you, Chapter Five of King and Lionheart!

 **Chapter Five: The Younger Son of Adam**

 _"_ _IT HAS BEGUN_." A VOICE SIMULTANEOUSLY COMMANDING AND GENTLE WHISPERS IN MY EAR.

I'm led into a small, windowless room in the Justice Building. All that is in it are two wooden chairs and a table with peeling chestnut-brown paint. The guard who escorted me in gives me an apologetic look. He seems to be between the ages of thirty-five and forty, with warm brown eyes that remind me of the comforting cups of coffee my late father used to drink. His skin was a deep shade of brown, too, which makes me believe he does more than luxuriate in his airconditioned office all day.

"I'm sorry it isn't something better. It'll just be a few minutes longer before your family can come in." He looks about ready to say something else, but instead he sighs. "I'm sorry this is happening to you, Kid. You seem nice."

"Thank you," I reply, grateful for his concern, especially after being treated to Tyla Manx's overenthusiasm (" _Two volunteers! Two! I knew I was smart to choose District 12 this year_!").

"You're the same age as my son, Eldrin," he smiles as he looks me up and down without making it feel uncomfortable. "You look a bit alike, too, except for the skin color. You're pale as a sheet, lad."

I snort. This isn't the first time someone's made a remark about my complexion. At least he didn't call me "lily-white" like my brother. "I got it from my Mum, Sir—"

"Oreius. And don't call me "Sir,"" he says, sounding affronted for some reason. "I have no authority whatsoever, son. If I did, you wouldn't be caught up in this rubbish right now."

I gasp – both from his audacity to insult the Capitol and his genuine interest in my wellbeing. He must have realized he said too much as well, for he ducks his head slightly and turns as if to leave. I'm shocked by my reluctance to see him go.

But before he can completely exit the room, he fixes me a warm, paternal gaze again. "I shall pray for you, Edmund Leonidas."

He's out the door before I can think of an appropriate response.

I sink onto one of the chairs, crossing my arms on the table and resting my chin on them. I'm calmer than I know I should be. I'm about to face a most harrowing fate, but I have nothing but peace in my heart. I take a deep breath and close my eyes, reveling in how free I feel. Even though I cannot leave and will be traveling towards my death in little more than an hour, I have not felt this free in a long time.

All this time, I hadn't realized how much I craved my brother's approval, how much I needed him to speak to me again without a scowl or a shadow of disappointment marring his features. It was — is — such an integral part of my life that when it was taken from me, I became lost. Now that I have it back, I don't know how I made it through this last year.

It wasn't until our little meltdown (Lion's Mane — in front of a thousand spectators, too!) at the Reaping that I noticed the I had been hurting the entire year. And I only noticed that fact once I realized that that pain was gone. I rub the part of my chest over my heart, still not believing that it is gone.

I carried it with me for so long that it is odd to move around without it. It's a good kind of odd, but still odd. It is almost like inhaling one of those expensive herbs that Peter practically shoved into my nose every time my respiratory illness acted up.

It's weird to wax poetic about my stupid lungs, but I can't think of a better way to express the utter relief. It really is like taking your first unhindered breath after a week of battling asthma on the sick bed. The tight bands around my chest are gone, and I feel as if I could run ten miles without stopping.

I smile as I imagine what Peter would have to say about that last thought. He just about lost it the last time I took off running through the woods after a hare we had accidentally wounded while hunting. I can just see that rare shade of red his face would always turn when he was especially exasperated with me.

Oh, it's _truly_ exceptional. It's discernible even in the dark when he's berating me for reading the night away. He would argue that lanky boys like me need our sleep, and that if I accidentally knock the oil lamp, I would burn our house down. His face would get redder and redder the more he argues, but he would never get to the end of it because I would dissolve into a fit of laughter. I chuckle at my own thoughts, the sound reverberating in the empty room.

I'd bet my detective novels — the ones Peter got me for my birthday from the black market — that every other tribute is either sniveling or maintaining a tough exterior right now. Yet here I am, smiling and enjoying the freedom that Peter's and my reformed bond has given me. Peter would probably have a few things to say about that as well. Probably something along the lines of me not being fully right in the head.

A sudden rattling noise snaps me out of my ruminations. I look around, attempting to find the source of the disturbance. I find it in the small air vent situated in the ceiling next to the door. A blast of cold air wafts over me, and I realize someone must have turned the air conditioning on.

Suddenly, all my bravery leaves me and I start shaking like a leaf. I never liked the cold, and winters were just plain brutal. We never had enough to eat even with Peter taking the tesserae. He would always make sure I had the larger portions at mealtimes — even though I insisted he needed the food more than I did — but I would still go to bed with a pinched stomach. To make matters worse, my barmy respiratory system always decided to act up during the winter. I would succumb almost daily to my condition. Peter, being the foolish, self-sacrificing older brother that he was, would brave the frostbite, the prospective avalanches, and the potential floggings to hunt for the game he needed to purchase the cures I required to breathe.

I always hated how helpless winter made me. I was never able to do much in return for everything Peter gave me… sacrificed for me. I know he didn't expect anything in return, that he was happy to do all that he did, but I still felt like I wasn't worthy of all the care he gave me. Especially when I couldn't even complete small tasks like help carry the firewood inside that was necessary to heat the house for his return from hunting trips.

The thought of Peter hunched over in blistering cold winds and pelting snow worsens my shaking. I remind myself that I have been able to do something in return for all those years he gave me everything. I've kept him alive, taken his place. He'll be safe now; he's aged out of the Reaping. He won't ever be forced to endure those grueling games; his purity won't ever be tarnished by having to kill someone to survive.

The thoughts still don't lessen my shaking.

" _Take heart, Edmund Leonidas,"_ that powerful whispering voice says again as the door swings open.

 *****I own nothing except characters and events not found on C.S. Lewis's and Suzanne Collins's works*****

 *****There will be no ships/pairings among Peter, Susan, Edmund, and Lucy*****

 *****Credits to Of Monsters and Men for the inspiration and title*****

 ***** TO GOD BE THE GLORY FOR EVER AND EVER AND EVER. AMEN *****


	6. The Older Son of Adam

**IMPORTANT NOTE** :

I might sound like a stage mum in an episode of Dancing Moms at this point, but hang it all because I am so darn proud of my co-author and sister in Christ, **CoffeeRanger** (my Ed-Lu)! If you end up loving this chapter, it's because of **CoffeeRanger** and her Heaven-blessed way with words and the characters' emotional depth. My sweet sister, thank you so much for editing and the heart-hitting additions! I am not one to blow my own horn, but I firmly believe this is our best chapter so far because of all you've done! God is so amazing for leading you to me!

And while we're on the topic of storyteller extraordinaire, **CoffeeRanger,** please check out her **The Hobbit** story entitled **Never Apart** if you are a Tolkien fan (as most Lewis fans are)! I've read it so many times but I'm still floored by the sheer beauty of the prose, Fili and Kili's brotherly love for each other, and the _glorious_ fight scenes! And of course, I will never stop advocating for **A Brother's Sorrow** – a story that is a beloved baby sister to King and Lionheart.

Thank you to everyone who've read, followed, favorited, and reviewed so far! Especially **CooperGirlHH** , **JubileeKnight** , and **Daughters of Eve3**! It's humbling to receive reviews and even well-meaning critiques from these people whose stories inspire me greatly as well. Everyone, if you haven't already, please check out their stories ( **What Happened at Farford** by **CooperGirlHH** , **Damascus Road** by **JubileeKnight** , and **Battle of Fear and Trust** by **Daughters of Eve3** , just to name a few of my favorites by these super talented authors).

 **ChecktheGate,** honestly, how can any Narnia fan resist smiling at the sound of your username? I immediately burst into the song every time I see your reviews! Skandar Keynes should be inducted in the Songwriters Hall of Fame for that epic lyrical masterpiece. Seriously! Thank you for your continued support and kindness. I hope you guys stick around until the very end because **CoffeeRanger** and I have so many plans for this story!

All right. These introductory notes have gotten out of hand once again. Please enjoy the story, and leave a review, perhaps? :) I know I've been adamant from the very start that reviews are not required, but I would be lying if I said I didn't live for them as much as the next author. So please, if you have any thoughts – any thoughts at all – we'd love to hear it! Criticisms are more than welcome as well.

-oOo-

 **CHAPTER SIX: THE OLDER SON OF ADAM**

Tremors course throughout his body, and it brings chilling memories of my baby brother convulsing from the cold; his heavily blanketed frame cocooned in our mother's embrace as he fought for every breath.

"Edmund," I whisper his name, like a prayer upon a desperate soldier's lips. The space between us is engulfed in two long strides and I crash to my knees beside him, pulling him into my arms. He melts into the embrace.

His skin is cold as ice. I clench my teeth. Not only have they taken him from me – from us – but they have forced him to stay here in this bitter cold room with only his fears for company. I want to destroy the source of his misery – to dash it to pieces in the hopes that it will make things even slightly better – but then Ed lays his head between my shoulder and neck, reaching up with one hand to grasp the section of my shirt that lies over my heart.

At that gesture, the fight leaves my body, and I turn my attention to comforting him. Useless as it may be, I whisper sweet nothings in his ear. His facial muscles tighten where they're pressed against my neck, and I realize he's trying to keep his sobs contained – probably out of fear of the Peacekeepers hearing and his continuous, misplaced assumption that I will think less of him for crying.

"Eddie," Oh, how he hates that nickname, but it rolls off my tongue before I can stop it. Oddly enough, that is what seems to break through to him. Soon, my collar is soaked through with his tears.

I _can't_ do this! I've only just gotten him back – only just apologized for my beastly behavior over the past year. How can I lose him now?

His silent sobs tell me that he feels the same way. He surrenders himself completely into my embrace, falling limp so that I'm forced to lean back to support his weight. I pull him tighter. Maybe if I hold him just a little harder, or in the right position, we would turn into one and the same body. Maybe then we could go together to the Games. Maybe then I would have a way of protecting him, of sheltering him from the horrors I know are coming.

This is where Ed belongs. With me. With _us_. Not in the Capital where his sharp wit and sense of justice could very well be his undoing. Not in the Arena where his smile will be replaced with a grimace; his youthful laughter a distant memory as he is forced to kill fellow tributes – actual _human beings_ – as if they were nothing more than animal flesh to be bartered for in the market.

A pair of soft, warm hands join Edmund's thin, freezing one against my back. I don't even have to look to know to whom they belong, who it is that is hugging Edmund from his other side. These hands are as familiar to me as my brother's.

These hands are the ones that soothed me when I had been laid low by a terrible flu nearly a year ago. They were always quick to brush the dark fringe from out of Ed's eyes as he slumbered. They were even quicker to rub warmth back into his stiffening arms as the frigid winds threatened to hold dominion over his dwindling life every winter. They were quick to ward off all threats against him, for she stands with me in sheltering him between us – safe and sound – just as he should be.

 _Safe and sound_ – as he was until today. Safe and sound – as he will be for just a few minutes more.

Edmund twists around to embrace our mum. She removes her hands from my back to place them on his, bringing him closer to her embrace as I had just done. In that position, I can clearly see her laundry-roughened hands. Damaged and callused as they are, they were always gentle as they guided Edmund's small ones in making bread out of the Capital's gritty ration flour. They were always playful whenever they yanked a book out of his sleep-deprived grasp. They were always loving as they extracted splinters from his fingertip because he never listened to me whenever I told him to leave our wooden table alone.

I focus on her hands. If I focus anywhere else, I will not see my mum. I will not see the image of a mother who might lose a son to a macabre game of life and death. My heart can't stand the thought, let alone the image.

"I'm sorry, Mum." Edmund cries, shifting my thoughts back to the tragic image despite my intent to focus on something warm and beautiful. He keeps his head down, cheek pressed into her chest, eyes on the floor. Knowing my brother, he's dreading something that isn't there to begin with – anger, disappointment, or possibly even accusation. I shiver despite my resilience for the cold. He is expecting the same reaction as I gave last year when I discovered he had taken the tesserae. Oh, Eddie, forgive me please. What have I done to you?

"So – sorry. I didn't – I couldn't." Edmund continues. "They were going to take Peter away." Finally, he lifts his head and looks Mum in the eyes, willing her to understand. "You need Peter more."

Those self-deprecating words impale my heart like daggers. It is all I can do to keep from standing as pain radiates from my heart throughout my body. Lion's Mane! Is this truly how my brother sees himself? He thinks he is expendable? Is it because I'm older? Stronger? Did Mum ever show greater favor towards me? I wrack my brain for a moment, trying to find some reason why Edmund would ever think that he is worth less than I –

Then I'm struck by their appearance. Sandwiched as close as they are, it is impossible to not see their resemblance. Their identical dark locks and chalk-white skin plants a suspicion inside my head. I can only pray it is not true.

I am a replica of the golden-haired, blue-eyes, broad-shouldered Adam Leonidas. The one and only man our mum ever loved. The husband whose death very nearly caused her to forget that she had two sons who depended on her.

The words she had spoken to me on my 17th birthday now come back to haunt me.

" _Why, Peter dear. You look exactly like your father did when he asked me if he could 'perhaps take the fair lady for a walk 'round the square._ '"

I step towards Mum and Edmund, convinced, yet appalled by my brother's train of thought. "Ed-"

"Whatever put that thought in your head?" Mum asks harshly. She grabs Ed's chin and forces him to look her in the eyes. "Why would you ever say something like that?" She brushes his bangs from off his forehead. "You are my precious boy. My last gift from your father. My _little Raven_. My Edmund." Each name is accompanied by a kiss. After the last one, she presses him back against her and then sits him down on the chair with him on her lap. My brother is so thin that our mum winces in sympathy over his slight weight.

"You are both precious to me. I can't bear the thought of losing either one of you."

Edmund closes his eyes, content to allow her words to wash over him. I want to add my part – to do what little I can to repair the damage my actions have caused – but I know that this is their moment. Unfortunately, the Peacekeepers are not so courteous.

Someone bangs on the door, "Ten minutes, Leonidas!"

Neither Edmund nor Mum appears to have heard the warning. I gently touch her shoulder, "Mum? Mum, we should give Edmund our send-off tokens now."

I need time to tell Edmund something… something important.

They finally break apart, both their faces glistening with tears. Edmund turns to face me, but he does not get off Mum's lap. I hand the small package wrapped in brown paper to Mum. She places it in Edmund's hand with a smile. His brow furrows as he considers the package's substantial weight. I pick up my own present for him and set it on his lap. He shoots me a half-hearted glare for the lack of warning.

"Why are they so heavy?" He asks as he lifts my present up.

"Just open it, you ungrateful little beast," I quip smartly, hoping he won't take the playful words to heart. He doesn't, shooting me another glare even as he tears into the cheap wrapping paper on his not-so-cheap present like a four-year-old on Christmas morning.

"Woah… Pete, I-I've always wanted… But when – How much?"

I chuckle at his truncated sentences – an indication that he is beyond pleased about something. I marvel at his childlike enthusiasm as he flips through The Complete and Unabridged Detective Oliver Dunham collection. But midway through his flipping, his joy dissipates dramatically.

"What's wrong, Ed?"

"Nothing. Pete, I just… You know – I don't think I'll be able to- It's long and –"

" _Don't_ ," I warn, my voice sharper than I intended. "Don't, Ed." I say more gently. "Please. I bought it last year. Even though I was a beast to you, I kept imagining the look on your face when I finally gave it to you for your birthday this year. Your birthday's still a few months away, but after you win the Games, all that money –"

"Peter… We don't know th-"

"No. Listen." I interject, unwilling to hear anything along that vein. "Ed, _when_ you win the Games, you'll have all the money in the world to buy all the books that you like. But before you do, you _have_ to finish this one," I kneel and place my hand on the book on his lap, "this book that your big brother bought for you, at a time when our family had next to nothing."

I hold his gaze steadily, imploring him to read between the lines. You will live to finish this massive book. You'll have your whole life to read every page – all 1,500 of them – because _You. Will. Live_.

To my boundless relief, he nods, clutching the book over his heart as though it is a lifeline.

"And you'll be needing this." Mum places the smaller package into his hand once more. She looks just as eager as he had been when she presented us with her homemade Christmas gifts last year.

Edmund wastes no time and unravels its content with one big tear. "An electric torch!"

"Eliminates the risk of burning the house down while you read the night awa – Oof!"

It's all I can do to keep myself from falling as Edmund pulls me to him, one arm nearly cutting off my airway as his other arm hugs Mum just as tight.

"Thank you," he murmurs. "Thank you for everything."

I untangle his suffocating hold and grasp his shoulders at arm's length so we are eye-to-eye. "You're welcome, Ed. Now, since you're such a spoiled little kid, for once, will you do as you're told?"

He nods, although there's a touch of wariness in his eyes, as if he knows exactly what words I'm about to say.

"Come. Back. Home."

His face pales a couple of shades, and his body, which has just been taut as a newly made bow, suddenly slackens. My heart collapses in my chest. He's wearing the countenance of a man who has completely given up – who knows there is no hope. I shake him again – as hard as I did at the Reaping.

"Hang it all, Edmund Leonidas! Come back home to me and Mum. That is an order!"

The words drag me back a few years – to when the Capital's train had broken down and about a hundred Peacekeepers clad in full white armor had come stomping into District 12, seeking our hospitality.

Eight-year-old Edmund was extremely curious about them. He would badger me day-in and day-out about the "awesome men who look like white robots!" Unfortunately, it was right during examination week, and I couldn't hear my own thoughts over his incessant questioning. I ignored it for as long as I could, but finally, I had held him by the shoulders and looked his straight in the eye, imitating Dad's authoritative manner of speaking as best as I could.

"That is enough, Edmund. No more talking until my school work is done. That is an order, and good soldiers always do what they're told."

My baby brother, who at that time fantasized about being a detective one day and a noble soldier the next, had stared back at me with a definite twinkle in his deep brown eyes. He had then lifted a hand and gave me the most perfect salute I had ever seen in my life. For a moment, I had been struck with the notion that little Eddie, frail though he was at times, might actually live up to the meaning of the name our parents had given to him: Protector.

There is no twinkle in his eyes now though. Only fear and doubt, but he gives me a half-hearted salute and mutters, "Yes, Sir," just the same.

This time I pull him from Mum's lap to give him a proper hug. My lips are barely an inch away from his ear. It's now or never. As much as I hate to do it, I have to convince him to fight for his life no matter what the cost. If I don't, I will lose my only brother forever.

"I promise, Ed. Aslan be with us all, we will be together again. The four of us will be together again."

I give him the briefest, vaguest breakdown of the things I plan to do while he and Susan work out their survival in the Games.

He gasps and I pull away to look at him.

Traitor. You great traitor. His fear-stricken gaze drills straight into my soul.

It tears me up inside, knowing I just threw his protection and sacrifice back into his face. But doesn't he see? He _wouldn't_ truly be able to protect me while he's in the Games, just as I can't protect him from outside them. He _needs_ to come out of this. He and Susan need to come out of this. Alive.

Before either of us or Mum can say anything else, Peacekeepers burst into the room. One immediately grabs Edmund from me, while two others step between them and me and Mum, keeping us from going to him.

"No, Peter!" Edmund cries as he struggles against the Peacekeeper's hold. "No, you can't! Please, Peter!" He manages to break the soldier's hold and rushes two steps towards us, but then two more guards grab his arms.

The last thing I hear is Edmund frantically screaming for Mum and me before the door closes.

I bow my head and clench my jaw, willing the tears away.

 _ **"**_ _ **Look away, Magnificent King," a voice breathes in my ear. "It is time that you and the Valiant Queen set your eyes upon the Western Wood. Look away from your brother, and look only to Me.**_

-oOo-

So… what do you guys think Peter told Edmund for the younger boy to react like that? Please let us know in the comments. I'm curious about your predictions. :)

 ***** The name** **Detective Oliver Dunham** **was inspired by Fringe character, Agent Olivia Dunham, who is owned by J. J. Abrams and the Fox Broadcasting network *****

 ***** CoffeeRanger and JustValiant1717** **do not own** **The Chronicles of Narnia or The Hunger Games. All characters, creatures, situations, and ideas that do not appear in their books and film/TV adaptations, however, belong to us. *****

 ***** NO PAIRINGS/SHIPS/SLASH among Peter, Susan, Edmund, and Lucy. *****

 ***** Any irksome deviation from the Narnia or Hunger Games canon is unintentional and is due to my inability to re-read the books at the moment *****

 ***** Great is our Lord, and abundant in power; His understanding is beyond measure. – Psalms 147:5 **** *


	7. The Older Daughter of Eve

**IMPORTANT NOTES ABOUT A POTENTIALLY** **DISCOMFITTING SCENE** **:**

When you get to that potentially unnerving scene, please keep in mind that it was all my idea and my co-author **CoffeeRanger** is not to blame for it at all. In fact, she did her very best to make _that scene_ as mild as possible. I read it a hundred times over prior to publishing, and I believe it's as subtle as it can possibly be. Still, we think it wise to give you guys a heads up—just in case _that sort of thing_ triggers you. I assure you that this would be the first and final time I would ever hint at something of that nature, and I never intend to go beyond what you will read/intend to skim over in just a few moments. Both **CoffeeRanger** and I commit to write in a way that is pleasing to Him who has given us the gift of words, and we promise, to the best of our abilities, not to go against this goal.

As always, I would like to thank **CoffeeRanger** for her invaluable insights, kindness, and friendship. Honestly, I don't think I would still be writing this story if it wasn't for her. The insecurities haven't gone away completely, but her continued passion for this story and the ideas she comes up with every time we exchange personal messages renew my strength and vigor every single time. So, my sweet sister-in-Christ, although we work equally hard for every single chapter, I dedicate the parts that I write both to you and to Him. *HUGS*

Thank you ever so much to everyone who have read/reviewed/followed/added King and Lionheart to their favorites! And welcome aboard, **All4Aslan** and **Cloudoffeathers**! I absolutely adore the usernames of both of you! All4Aslan, thank you for giving this a chance, even though The Hunger Games is not your cup of tea. Your prediction about what Peter told Edmund in the previous chapter made me smile!

Eternally thankful to the incomparably talented **JubileeKnight** , **CooperGirlHH** , and **Daughter of Eve3** as well. I may have told you this before in one of my reviews for your stories, but I still think that along with **CoffeeRanger** , you guys are ushering the new Golden Age of Narnia fanfics! I still think it's absolutely nuts that you guys read my work at all!

Speaking of which—thanks for showing interest in **Snow White and Black Heart.** I promise I've already started writing the continuation—in my head, at least.

I re-read the previous chapters of this story a few days back. The inconsistency of my tenses is admittedly HORRENDOUS and I would like to apologize for that and all the grammatical blunders I have committed. **CoffeeRanger** is a wonderful beta/editor/co-author, but she can only do so much, and if you were to check out her stories, you would notice that her grammar and tenses are always strong and consistent, so all the mistakes you will see are mine. I know it's not an excuse but I'm not a native English speaker. I'm from the beautiful Pearl of the Orient Sea (aka Philippines) and even my Filipino is far from perfect.

Finally, because this seems to be one of the major reasons why some readers initially refuse to give this story a chance, I'm going to have to say it here once, and then in the ending notes a second time: ABSOLUTELY NO PAIRINGS/SHIPS/SLASH AMONG PETER, SUSAN, EDMUND, LUCY, **AND** CASPIAN. My feelings regarding the whole Jon Snow/Danaerys Targaryen mess reminded me of how strongly I digress the SUSPIAN ship (I would like to apologize if there is anyone here who likes Caspian and Susan together, but this is how I feel).

I ship one ship and ONE ship only: Edmund Pevensie/Electric Torch.

All right. On with the story. I apologize for the ridiculously long rant. Please enjoy what CoffeeRanger and I have worked really hard on for the past few weeks, and if you please, let us know via reviews/personal messages what you think. We treasure every single response from you guys.

-oOo-

 **CHAPTER SEVEN: THE OLDER DAUGHTER OF EVE**

There is something about the way the guard looks at me that I don't like. I can't quite place my finger on it. Nothing sets him apart from any of the other guards I have seen—same uniform, same scowl, same cold demeanor. The only thing I can think of is that it is something in his cold, pale grey eyes— something hidden deep waiting to be released. Lucy would probably be able to tell me in a heartbeat. Somehow, she has always been able to discern the intention of those we meet.

The guard places his hand on my elbow as we move through the halls. It takes everything within me not to edge away from him. It would not be polite — he has not done anything after all. On top of that, he is a Peacekeeper.

As we move into a more deserted portion of the Justice Building, I can't help the chill that travels down my back. There's a warm, soothing voice trying to break its way into my consciousness. I concentrate, trying to figure out where it is coming from and what it is saying. However, the guard starts talking just then, and his annoying blither soon drowns out the sound, so much I cannot understand whatever it is the voice is trying to say. I try to politely dislodge his grasp, but it's to no avail. Over our last few steps he has gotten closer and closer.

"This is going to be easy for you, lassie." he says, his eyes raking my features from head to toe in a manner that makes my skin crawl with disgust. "Remember that pretty Odair kid from District 4? Youngest victor ever. Got them sponsors showering him with parachutes by batting his eyelashes and flexing them brawny arms at the cameras. The audience ate it up — couldn't get enough of him."

I pretend not to hear — even though he is speaking so loudly that if anyone was walking along the corridor, they would be able to hear our one-sided conversation. I concentrate on putting one foot in front of the other. It shouldn't be much farther to the room; it can't be. My head starts to ache from holding my breath. The chatty bloke's mouth smells to high heavens — like a dead sewer rat baking under the summer sun.

"You're a lovely thing."

I see him nod to himself out of the corner of my vision. I resist the urge to roll my eyes. Why must that always be everyone's comment when they first meet me? I am much more than how I look. Besides, as much as I fancy the notion of surviving the Games by winning the sponsors' favor instead of _killing_ my way to the Finale, I still cannot stomach the thought of objectifying myself—of baring some skin or shooting alluring looks to the cameras for a slice of bread or a box of matches.

Leanna Kretzmer did it—albeit not as gratuitously as Finnick had done in his time—and she almost won, too. If it wasn't for her getting caught praying to Aslan later in the Games, she wouldn't have been "accidentally" wiped out by the artificial lava that suddenly flooded the Arena out of nowhere.

A sudden ache seizes my heart as a vision of Caspian Telmar, who had been the reigning tribute when Kretzmer represented District 12, fills my head.

I was only four years old when Caspian first assumed the role of mentor to incoming tributes, but a clip of him sobbing and thrashing as he witnessed Kretzmer's gruesome death has been replayed on television for as long as I can remember. The Capitol calls it one of the "emotional highlights" of Games past, but my family and I firmly believe that it is their way of reminding us of what becomes of tributes—of anyone—who dare wear their faith in their sleeves.

The aching turns to full-blown panic as I realize how steadfast Mum and Lucy can be in their faith. Without me, there will be no one left to remind them fiercely of the perils they are inviting upon themselves.

"You can win this thing and feed this pathetic district for a year," the guard continues, effectively dispelling thoughts of Caspian, his deceased lady love (if the enduring rumors are to be believed), and my headstrong mother and sister. "Why don't you practice, eh? Show me how to blink those pretty doll eyes of yours."

"No." I say as firmly as I can without growling. Why is it taking so long to reach the meeting room? The Justice Building is not that big. We should have been there by now. The ill feeling I have in my stomach increases tenfold, and I inch away from the man.

I am stopped as his grip on my elbow tightens and he pulls me back to my original place at his side. "I'm an officer, you know. I can bloody well make you do anything I please!"

"And if I don't?" I turn to him, my chin raised in utter defiance. "You'll hurt me? I'm a _tribute_ , _Officer_." I spit out his undeserved title like a vile substance I cannot bear to keep on my tongue.

"You've got some gall," he snarls. The hallway we have been walking down splits, and he steers me down the dark, narrow corridor that leads to a desolate corner void of any door or window.

My entire being stiffens at the sight. My heart hammers against my ribcage with bruising force and I start having trouble breathing. He _can't_. He _wouldn't_. I'm supposed to be as safe and secure as the president until the Games. A single scratch on me means one hundred marks on his back.

This isn't where we are supposed to be. Take to me to my family," I say; the steadiness of my voice belies the weakness of my knees.

A sinister smirk pulls at the corners of his lips. My heart stops at the sight. I know now that he does not care about the rules. I am in more danger here than I have ever been in the village.

I open my mouth to scream, to draw attention to us, to call for aid, but the attempt dies as he drives his fist into my stomach. The pain is so strong I almost lose consciousness. Only the debilitating fear of what will happen if I do keeps me awake. I stumble back, my arms covering my stomach in a weak attempt to protect it against future blows.

"Please," I implore weakly. All my bravery and defiance dissipates as the back of my legs meet the cold wall. "Please, let me go."

"You're prettier when you're acting pathetic like this." He reaches for my hair, running his hand through it. I squeeze my eyes shut, tears slipping down my cheeks.

 _Aslan! Aslan, please!_

"What are you doing?!" The voice that fills the small space is a roar.

My eyes fly open in time to see the guard go flying back, his hands slipping from my hair. My defender — a dark, long-haired, utterly intimidating middle-aged man — throws the guard over his shoulder as if he were an empty flour sack. A young, fair-haired boy with a familiar face slips around them to place strong yet gentle hands on my shoulders. His calming voice washes over me as he pulls me close.

Peter Leonidas. My brain supplies the name that matches the face. Concern shines in his red-rimmed eyes. It is the same concern and fear I had seen back at the Reaping. The same concern and fear I had seen directed at Edmund.

I can't help it. My nerves are still frazzled by what had just happened. I bury my face into his broad shoulder and throw my arms around his waist. The prim and proper part of me seethes at the back of my mind. However, I could care less what Peter might make of my complete lack of manners at the moment. My tears drench his shirt as I feel his arms come up to hug me.

"I - I'm sorry." I hiccup into his shirt. I'm taking in big gulps of air, but I still can't settle my breathing. My knees are weak, and I fear that if it wasn't for Peter's supporting arms, I would be a crumpled mess on the floor.

"Hush. It's all right." Peter begins to rub my back. "You're all right. Officer Oreius will make him pay." I feel him shift to look at the two men behind us and I can't help but look up as well.

My assailant is backed against the wall by the other man — Oreius if I had heard correctly, his face white as snow and his eyes huge as saucers. Oreius has him pinned by the shoulders, his hands squeezing so tight his deep brown knuckles are losing color.

I shudder as I imagine what could have happened if they hadn't come. Peter pulls me closer. "You're all right. Shhh. We got here. Nothing's going to happen." I start to feel myself relax. Peter's shirt feels like it's made of old, scratchy material, and he seems to have lost some weight after suffering from a prolonged illness last fall. But because of who he is and how he treats the people around him, I feel as though I was in the arms of a king in full armor.

His other hand reaches up to pat the back of my head, pressing my face even further into his chest, but there is nothing suffocating at all about the way he is holding me. In fact, it reminds me of my mother's hugs — warm and comforting, promising protection from all the evil in the world. It makes me feel tough, even though I am anything but.

"Peter," Oreius interrupts. "I'm going to take this — this _scum_ to the square. I'll see him suitably paid, make no mistake. Would you please escort Susan to her room? It's right down the main hallway the way we were going. It's the second door on the left as soon as you exit this corridor. Edmund's in the first room to the right."

"Yes, Sir." Peter nods.

I sniffle and pull away from Peter as Oreius hauls the other guard back the way we had come by his uniform collar.

Peter turns to look at me. "Are you all right?"

I swallow. "I will be. Thank you — for your help. I—" Another shudder runs through my body, "I don't want to think about what would have happened if you had not come."

"Then don't think about it." Peter insists. "You're safe now."

He turns us so we are facing back out towards the main hallway and we begin walking. He keeps one hand on my arm, reminding me that I am not alone.

Peter's mother joins us when we reach the main hallway. She is holding two large packages in her hands, but she still immediately pulls me into her arms, smoothing my hair from my face. "You poor dear. Are you all right?"

I nod. "Yes, Ma'am. Thanks to Peter and the other officer. Nothing happened."

She visibly relaxes, "Praise Aslan," she murmurs under her breath. As if on cue, Peter and I swivel our gazes back and forth, checking for signs that someone might have heard his mum say the forbidden name. We let go of our breaths at exactly the same time. Despite myself, I entertain something that Lucy used to tell me, " _Susan, I feel as if we know—or at least_ ought _to know—Peter and Edmund Leonidas."_

"We have to go, Mum," Peter says. He looks apologetically at me. His eyes reveal the conflict he is having between needing to see his brother while they still have the chance, and ensuring that I am truly all right.

"I'll be all right, Peter, Mrs. Leonidas," I say, pulling myself together. I will not be the cause of them missing out on their time with Edmund. "Edmund is waiting for you. My family will be here soon."

"Are you sure?" Mrs. Leonidas asks.

I nod. "Yes, Ma'am."

"All right." Her lips are pursed, but she relinquishes her grip on me. "We'll see you to your room first."

Peter once again takes his place at my side as we continue down the hall. We all stop at the door Oreius mentioned.

"Thank you very much, Peter, for your help," I say, putting my hand on the handle. "I promise I will look out for Edmund as best as I can."

Peter nods. "Thank you, Susan. Look out for yourself as well."

"I promise." Not that the promise is worth much. I might not last long in the Arena, but I am going to fight really hard for the chance to see my family again.

Mrs. Leonidas gives me one final hug, then they walk back down the hall and open the door that leads to where Edmund waits.

I take a deep breath and push open the door to my own room. I snort when I see the contents. One extremely worn wooden table and three plastic chairs. That's it.

I sit at the tables and try to still my suddenly shaking hands. I have to be strong when Mum and Lucy arrive. They will never know what just happened. They have enough to focus on without the knowledge of my very close brush with… with one of the worst things that can happen to any person. One last time, I will make the most of the opportunity to be strong for them, to protect and provide for them.

But my heart betrays me as soon as I settle on one of the chairs. I clamp two hands fiercely against my mouth to keep the wounded cry from escaping my chest. _Sixty seconds, Susan. You have exactly sixty seconds to nurse this onslaught of weakness._

I squeeze my eyes shut and pray.

 _Aslan, I know I haven't been the most faithful to you. I know I haven't prayed to you… until today, and I thank you for sending Peter and Officer Orieus to my aid. But Aslan, why did you allow_ it? _Why must I be burdened by this experience just before the Games? Why must Lucy get picked? Why must I journey to my death_ alone _? Oh, I know there is that small chance that I might make it out of this alive. But it wouldn't matter, would it, Aslan? It wouldn't be Susan Pevensie who would come home to Mum and Lucy when all of this is over. Not anymore. Who I am now would surely die in that Arena with all the other human beings I would be forced to kill. Why Aslan? Why have you forsaken_ me _?_

An image of a great lion trudging wearily in a dark forest, accompanied by two girls, breaks through my steadily darkening thoughts. I almost give in to the desire to weep, because there's something so infinitely sad about this; something equally perplexing and meaningful, but I stop short at the sound of the turning doorknob.

The door swings open and there, with their ghostly-white faces that look incongruous to the fiery determination in their eyes, I find the answers to almost all of my questions.

-oOo-

Thank you so much for reading! Now, I know it's pretty obvious that Chapter Eight will be called "THE YOUNGER DAUGHTER OF EVE," but here's some food for thought: Chapter Nine will be called "TURKISH DELIGHT." Any thoughts on how the iconic Turkish Delight will come into play? Please let us know in your reviews or PMs if you have ideas! ^_^

*** CoffeeRanger and JustValiant1717 do not own The Chronicles of Narnia or The Hunger Games. All characters, creatures, situations, and ideas that do not appear in the books or films, however, belong to us. ***

*** NO PAIRINGS/SHIPS/SLASH among Peter, Susan, Edmund, Lucy, and Caspian ***

*** Any irksome deviation from the Narnia or Hunger Games canon is unintentional and stems from my inability to re-read the books at the moment ***

 ******* ** _For I am convinced that nothing can ever separate us from God's love. Neither death nor life, neither angels nor demons, neither our fears for today nor our worries about tomorrow—not even the powers of hell can separate us from God's love._** ** _No power in the sky above or in the earth below—indeed, nothing in all creation will ever be able to separate us from the love of God that is revealed in Christ Jesus our Lord. – Romans 8:38-39_** *******


	8. The Younger Daughter of Eve

**Author's Notes:**

Hullo! It's been a long while. I hope you're still with us and would be so kind to take a minute or two to let us know if you've missed our story.

The greatest of love and gratitude to my co-author and beloved friend, **CoffeeRanger** , for writing this chapter. Over 95% of the beauty you will see below is her work. All I did was put some minor polishing in place. Love you, my sister! And I pray that you're healing wonderfully after your wrist surgery.

Also, thank you ever so much to **Cloudoffeathers** for her kind words and encouragement. It's readers like you who make all the hard work and pushing aside the fear of putting pieces of our heart out here at FF oh so worth it. God bless you and I hope you'll enjoy our collaboration to the very end.

Thank you, **Bronze Cat** , for the lovely review. Also, thank you so much for writing your masterpiece, **Beneath the Cloisters**. If you people haven't read it, please do so as soon as you are able, and then join me in puzzling about whether or not Bronze Cat is a published author who joined FF to unwind (or should get out there in the world to try and get her masterpieces published, at the very least).

Thank you, **Chickencomes1st**! I know you crossed over here from my sister CoffeeRanger's works, **A Brother's Sorrow** and **A Brother's Betrayal** (which all of you should check out as well. They have literally the GREATEST chapters set in the King and Lionheart universe.) Welcome, welcome! I'm so happy you're supporting both of our works.

 **Guest** , thank you for letting us know what you think! You're on to something there, let me tell you. :)

Thank you, **I live for holo** , for at least giving my work a try. And yeah, I ship Edmund/Electric Torch because I _love_ that torch, and I don't think there's anything disgusting about that, nor did I suggest anything that would make it even remotely immoral. You "live" for holo (holographic stuff, right? The shifting rainbows?), and I think that's cool. Nothing disgusting about that at all. And thanks for mentioning LucyCrewe11! I shall check out her work sometime.

Thank you, **Messenger77** 7\. Ughmm… I honestly don't know what else to say. I hope it's all right with you that we're continuing on with this story and seek to glorify God our Father in a somewhat different way.

 **CoopergirlHH** , I will always be tickled pink to receive attention from someone as talented as you. Thank you for your review on this one and **my other story (which I should never have written in the first place)!**

 **Awilliamsbbc.98** – AHHH! Girl, you are AWESOME! Welcome aboard! I hope CoffeeRanger and I live up to your expectations, Ms. Amazing! Guys, you should check out her works, too. **King's Bane, Crownless,** and **The City Ruinous** are my favorites so far. They. Are. **FANTASTIC**.

Finally, **Anonymous** , thank you so much and welcome aboard! I hope y'all stay for the ride.

Without further ado, I give you CoffeeRanger's amazing Chapter Eight.

-oOo-

 **CHAPTER EIGHT: THE YOUNGER DAUGHTER OF EVE**

I trot down the hall next to Mum, my hand in hers. It took us longer to get home to grab Susan's gifts than we originally thought we would. The crowds were thick, and though we live quite close to the Square, it was nigh impossible to get back to my sister in record time, what with people stopping us every step of the way to say how sorry they were – some even bawling their eyes out. I know their hearts are in the right place, but I couldn't help the sigh of aggravation that escaped me as Mum and I tried to comfort _them._ It isn't like Susan is already dead for them to express such regret; neither is she at death's door. She has as much chance as everyone else to win. Maybe even a better chance, what with Aslan on her side.

 _Aslan_. I hold my head a little higher as we walk down a long, rather dank hallway. The Peacekeeper posted at the front entrance seems flustered, looking around nervously as if expecting something to jump out at him at any second.

"We're sorry to have kept you waiting, Ma'am," he says, bowing his head ever so slightly at us. "We had some… unexpected difficulties arise."

Muffled cries resonate from somewhere outside. I turn to look out the window but see nothing. However, as I concentrate, I think I hear the distinct sound of a whip hitting flesh. I turn back to Mum, but she simply squeezes my hand.

"It's quite all right." Despite the pain I know she is feeling, Mum maintains a level tone and a placid face. I wager it comes from all her years as a healer. You can't treat many of the wounds and illnesses she's had to deal with without developing a way to keep everything tightly bottled up or at the very least, pushed to the side so you can deal with the here and now.

"May – " she licks her pale, dry lips. "May we see Susan now, please?"

"Yes, Ma'am. I'm afraid I can't lead you to where she's waiting. However, if you take this hallway here," he pointed to a doorway straight ahead of uss, "and follow it all the way down. Your daughter is waiting in the second to last room on the left. A guard will come get you when it's time to leave." Mum nods to the guard by way of thanks, and the guard pivots on his heels and leaves through another door as quickly as he can.

We walk slightly quicker in the direction the guard told us to take, getting closer and closer to Susan. I clutch her gift tightly in my hands, willing them not to shake.

 _Oh Aslan. Help me be strong. Help me help Susan. Give her strength. Please protect her. Bring her home to us. Please._

It was so easy to believe – to trust – while I was standing in the Square during the Reaping. When the reality of what is happening to us was just sinking in. Now, however, as we walk to see Susan for the last time, I find those doubts and fears coming back.

 _You will see your sister again_. That was – is – His promise. I hear it as plain as day every time my courage falters. The gifts I hold in my hands, pressed firmly against my heart, are testament to the fact that He is still watching out for us. Watching over Susan.

 _Please, Aslan, please keep her safe._

I glance up at Mum to see her biting the inside of her lip as she always does when thinking deeply, or when worrying about something. Susan has the same habit. It's comforting to see it in both of them. They are so alike in so many ways, I may as well have two mothers. Sometimes I resent it. Susan can be quite bossy more than half time, even when I constantly tell her that I am 12 years old and more than capable of looking out for myself. But, despite my frustrations, I wouldn't trade her for the world.

"Mum?"

"Yes, Sweetheart?" Mum lets go of my hand to run her hand through my hair.

"Susan's going to be all right? Isn't she?" I glance around, but we are alone in the long hallway. Even so, I lower my voice to barely a whisper. "Aslan promised she would be all right. He will keep His word, won't He? She'll come back to us?"

"Oh, Lucy." Mum stops walking and kneels so we're looking eye to eye. "Aslan will do whatever He plans to do. If it is His will that Susan comes back to us, she will. But we have to remember that she is in His hands." She pulls me to her chest and hugs me tight. "No matter what happens, she belongs to Him."

She whispers the words as if to remind herself of them, but she sheds no tears. I can count on my hand the number of times I've seen Mum cry. It's not that she doesn't feel – it's just that she's a healer and so she keeps her feelings contained and releases them when she's alone; when she does not need to be the strong support for _others_.

I squeeze her tight in return and then step back. She smiles at me and tucks a lock of hair behind my ear. "Good girl." She whispers.

We finish taking our walk down the hall and pause for a second outside. Mum draws herself up, pulling her shoulders back. It's not quite her "healer" stance, but it's close. I'm the one who pushes the door to Susan's room open.

She's sitting at the only table in the room – a poor, rickety wooden thing that looks as if it will fall over at any moment. Her eyes are red from tears and her hands shake even as she tries to compose herself once she notices we're here.

"Oh, Susan!" I cry and rush forward. Within seconds, I'm buried in Susan's embrace. Her arms are around me, her hand carding through my hair.

"Hush, Lu. There's no need to carry on like this. I'll be all right. Don't cry."

She rocks me back and forth as she continues to murmur in my ear. Mum comes up behind us and wraps us both into her arms. We stay like that for a long time – simply soaking in each other's presence, not saying anything, just holding one another for this last time.

It is Susan who breaks down first. She has always worn her heart on her sleeve – despite her attempts to state otherwise and to change what she sees as a weakness. I wish she can see it like I do. Her kind and gentle heart do not make her less brave than Mum or me. They make her strong. She is a nurturer. People love her for she makes them feel safe and cared for. And when she says she loves or cares for someone, no words truer than that could have ever been spoken.

Mum hugs her closer. I ease out of Susan's embrace and allow Mum full access to her. Susan turns so she's fully facing Mum and lays her head in the crook of her neck.

"I'm sorry," she whispers through her tears.

"Hush that," Mum says, sternly yet not unkindly. "You have nothing to apologise for, Susan. Nothing at all. Let it all out. I am here. I've got you."

Susan cries for another five minutes. During that time, the fear comes back in full force. Tears spring to my eyes as well, but I blink them away.

 _Aslan, where are You? Please help her. Save her from this, please. She shouldn't have to go! Please. I don't want to lose my sister. I can't lose Susan._

There is no answer from Him, not even a whisper of anything. I clutch the gifts tighter in my hand. I have to believe. Aslan has not let us down once. He will not stop now.

 _Susan belongs to Him_. Mum's words from the hallway spring back into my mind.

 _I know she is Yours, Aslan, but I need her too!_

Slowly, Susan's tears dry and she sits up. Her eyes are puffed and she sniffles as she tries to keep her nose from running. Mum smiles gently at her, pulling a handkerchief from one of the pockets of her dress.

"Thanks," Susan whispers, using it to wipe her eyes and nose. "I'm sorry. I know crying won't help anything."

"But you feel better now, don't you?" Mum asks.

Susan shrugs. "A bit."

"Then it did some good." Mum leans over and plants a kiss on Susan's forehead. "Not all tears are bad, Susan."

"Tears won't help me in the Arena."

"No. But you are not in the Arena yet. You are here with your family. It is better to get it out now, than to bottle it up and keep it suppressed so that it surprises you later."

"Yes, Mum." Susan smiles a little at the advice I have heard Mum give her many times over the years.

"Good girl. Now, you remember what your father taught you, all right? You're one of the strongest people going into that Arena, no matter what you think. Keep your head about you."

"You're the greatest archer in all of District 12, Susan. Probably in all the Districts. You _can_ win this, Su. You actually can!" I exclaim as passionately as I can. Susan and I know that these are not empty flattery or even plain encouragement. They're the truth. Indeed, my sister has yet to miss a single target since picking up a bow and a quiver of arrows.

"Right, Lu. I suppose I can. I promise – I promise to do my best." There is a slight quaver to her voice, and I think I know what scares her so about the fact that she is an excellent shot. This time, however, I keep my thoughts to myself. If we talk about _it_ now, she might wallow in these thoughts well into the Games. No, this time, I will put my sister first before everyone else. And she _must_ do the same.

Tears shine in Mum's eyes as she reaches over to cup Susan's face with her hand. Her thumb rubs Susan's cheek and her gaze travels all over her form as if memorizing what her oldest daughter looks like.

"I know you will, my strong Willow." The tears finally slide down Mum's cheeks.

There is something about seeing my perpetually calm, collected Mum openly shed tears that squeezes painfully at my heart, so I take matters in my own hands and attempt at injecting some enthusiasm in the grave atmosphere. "Who wants presents?"

That _does_ the trick. Their identical bluish-gray eyes gaze at me with a keenness that seems to say, " _our sweet little youngest._ " I am rarely fond of being doted on, as I have always felt older than my actual years. But this time I bask in the affection – if only to take both of their minds off the suffocating sorrow.

"What do you have for me, Lu? Surely, it's not cat fur bunched up in a little ball?" Susan teases and I blush, remembering six Christmases past when I'd scraped some fur off a cute silver tabby, bunched them up into a ball half the size of my palm, and woke my slumbering sister to proudly present to her my little Christmas present. Despite the teasing, I know the fuzzy silver ball is sitting safely inside an old shoe box under her bed, along with all the handmade gifts Mum and I had made for her over the years.

I pout and whine to call her bluff. "It's not! And you love that gift, Su. But here—" I fish the tiny, red velvet pouch that I'd stuffed into my pocket when we hugged and give it to Susan. Her face colours with delight upon seeing how beautiful the pouch is. Very carefully, as if she feels unworthy to hold something so exquisite, she unties the string keeping the pouch closed. She gasps at what she finds.

Two white gold necklaces, with identical ivory pendants crafted into miniature horns. The mouthpieces are made of silver and shaped into budding flowers, while the bells (where the sound of the horns—the _whistles_ , in this case—comes from) are carved in the shape of a roaring lion's head.

She looks up at me, wonder and fear mingling in her expression. "Lucy… Where did you get these?"

I stare at the necklace dangling from Susan's fingers with awe. With my sister's cream-white complexion, the white gold chain looks almost invisible. "Mr. Nicholas gave it to me on Christmas, Su. He approached me while I was building a snowman in our backyard. He told me not to give them to you that very day, but that I would _know_ when the right time comes."

"Mr. Nicholas? The old man we call Father Christmas who gives toys and books to children during the Holidays?"

I nod, smiling as I recall the kind, jolly face of the generous man. "I was terribly confused as well, Su. But now I know that it _is_ the right time to give them to you. Remember the stories about kings and queens you used to tell me when I was little?"

She blinks contemplatively, as if trying to remember, and then she smiles. "Eva, the warrior queen who blew her war horn only at her greatest time of need."

"Exactly, Su!" I exclaim, beyond pleased to know that I am not the only one who still lives for these fairy tales. We stare at each other and share a little laugh, and then Susan takes the other necklace in her hand to put it around my neck.

"Oh no, Susan. Give it to Edmund Leonidas," I say, ducking a bit before she can have the necklace clasped around my neck.

Susan furrows her brow, clearly unhappy with the idea of not sharing something so beautiful with her one and only sister. "But why, Lu? I'm sure Edmund will receive sendoff tokens from his family as well."

"I just know it is what Aslan wants, Su. Please, give it to Edmund. He needs it more than I do."

She pales a little at the mention of Aslan's name and then, as if only now realizing it, she takes the pendant in her hand and examines it a little closer.

"Lucy, surely the Capitol would frown upon this if they realise—"

"Just trust me, Susan," I say fervently, willing Susan to recognise my need for her faith in my eyes. I know in my heart that this is one of the things Aslan wants— _needs—_ to be done in the Games. Mum and I understand there is always a certain amount of risk that comes with the tiniest display of faith in the country we are living in.

But the lack of faith, or the pretension of having none, is where danger truly lies.

To my boundless relief, Susan nods and puts the other necklace back inside the pouch.

"Mum has a gift for you as well," I say after a couple quiet heartbeats, looking eagerly at Mum.

Susan turns to face Mum, "Mum?"

In answer, Mum reaches into her pocket and pulls out one of the hair sticks Dad made for her. In his spare time, he liked to whittle. He was very good at working wood. Mum always said if he had ended up living in one of the other Districts, he probably would have become well-known for his woodwork. But he always said he was happiest here with us, carving small things like animals for me to play with when I was younger, or the ring he made for Susan when she was ten, or the hair sticks for Mum.

Susan takes the hair stick from Mum, stifling a gasp when she saw which one it is. It's one of the last ones Dad made; he carved it out of pine. While he usually didn't like working with pine wood since it was so soft, he said that it was the perfect piece for that stick.

Carved on the end is a lion's head, its mouth open in a mighty roar. It's almost identical to the horn pendants, but you couldn't tell that from a distance. And even if the officials do look closely, there is no way they would be able to associate it with Aslan.

"Mum are you sure?" Susan asks. "This is special."

"You are more special, Susan. I want you to have a reminder of Who is with you, of Whose protection you are under. The wood is soft enough, the officials should not have a problem with it. After all, you need a way to put up your hair."

"And we added something," I say, though very quietly. If people find out what we did to the hair stick, we will all be in trouble. I bounce forward a little bit so I can whisper. "We soaked it in the cordial. Mum says she's not sure if it will work, but if you boil it, the cordial should seep out into the water. It won't be as powerful as the pure cordial, but it will work as a pain reliever and might help fix smaller wounds."

I smile up at her. It was my idea to try and give Susan some of my healing cordial, though Mum came up with the idea to use the hair stick. I am so glad Aslan led us both to the ideas. I feel better knowing Susan will have at least some form of protection going into the Arena. That I am able to help her in this small way.

Susan doesn't say anything and just reaches over to pull both of us into a big hug. "Thank you. Both of you." She kisses both of our cheeks.

The door to the room opens. I look up to see the same guard who met us standing in the doorway. He shifts his weight from one foot to the other, wringing his hands slightly.

"Sorry to interrupt. But it's time for Susan to go. The train is here."

"Very well. Just one moment more?" Mum asks.

The Peacekeeper glances down the hall, then nods quickly. "Just a moment though. We can't wait too long or they'll come looking for us."

"I understand. Thank you."

Mum turns back to Susan. Taking the hair stick from her, she quickly pulls Susan's hair up into an intricate twist, pinning the hairstyle in place with the stick. Then she clasps the horn necklace around her neck.

"There. Now you're ready." She pulls Susan into one more hug, squeezing her tightly as if she'll never let go.

"Always remember Who watches out for you. Your sister and I will be praying," She whispers in her ear then finally lets her go.

I step up for my hug, squeezing Susan as tightly as Mum did. "You'll take care of yourself? Promise you'll come home, Susan, please."

Susan hugs me and pushes me back a little so she can look me in my eyes, "I'll do my best, Lu."

She places one hand on my chest, her thumb, pointer-finger, and pinky extended out. "I love you. I'm here for you. I will never leave you. Always remember that, Lucy."

Tears spring to my eyes and run down my cheeks but I nod, "I promise, Susan."

"I love you."

"I love you, too."

Susan turns and kisses Mum's cheek one last time, "I love you, Mum."

"I love you too, Susan."

I stand by Mum's side and watch as the Peacekeeper escorts her away from us and to her future. I strain my hearing, hoping, praying, to hear Aslan's voice before we leave the Justice Building. Nothing.

Mum and I turn on our heels, but just before we could be well and truly away from my beloved sister, we hear the sweet sound reminiscent of a birdsong. We look at each other and know that it's Susan, testing out her horn.

-oOo-

So… what do you think, guys? Please let us know in the reviews. :) Up next: CHAPTER NINE: TURKISH DELIGHT.

Random question: I recently saw an online poll showing that Prince Caspian is the least favorite Chronicles of Narnia book. I mean… why? That book is awesome! :'(What is your favorite Narnia book, though?

*** CoffeeRanger and JustValiant1717 do not own The Chronicles of Narnia or The Hunger Games. All characters, creatures, situations, and ideas that do not appear in the books or films, however, belong to us. ***

*** NO PAIRINGS/SHIPS/SLASH among Peter, Susan, Edmund, Lucy, and Caspian ***

*** Any irksome deviation from the Narnia or Hunger Games canon is unintentional and stems from my inability to re-read the books at the moment ***

 ** _My favorite prayer:_**

 ** _Today, I receive all of God's love for me. Today, I open myself to the unbounded, limitless, overflowing abundance of God's universe. Today, I open myself to God's blessings, healings and miracles. Today, I open myself to God's word, so that I become like Jesus every day. Today, I proclaim that I'm God's Beloved, I'm God's Servant, I'm God's Powerful Champion. And because I am blessed, I will bless the world in Jesus name. Amen._**


	9. Turkish Delight

**Notes:**

So… it took us even longer than last time to update. I sincerely apologize. Real life's been hard and hectic, to say the least. I hope you guys haven't given up on us, though, as we will never give up on this story.

As always, thank you very much for all the follows, favourites, and reviews. Your words inspire me and my co-author, the lovely **CoffeeRanger** , in ways even writers like ourselves cannot express in words.

All right. You've waited long enough. I won't keep you guys with my incessant babbling anymore. I hope you enjoy Chapter Nine! God bless you all!

-oOo-

 **CHAPTER NINE: TURKISH DELIGHT**

Despite my ardent resolve to seem nonplussed about anything that the Capitol has to offer, my breath catches in my chest as I take in the inside of the train. Everything – from the heady scent of rose and lavender oil in the air, to the silver, gold, diamond and ivory accoutrements, to the plush, red velvet cushions – sparkles and shines as if brand new. Knowing the Capital, it probably is.

It is hard to keep the disgust from my face, despite my amazement. Everywhere I look, I see yet another display of wealth and opulence. I feel horribly out of place. My dress is three inches too short, and there are patches in spots where the fabric wore thin. My mind flashes back to my home, to the families left in near abject poverty, and I swallow hard. Even the smallest trinket from this room _alone_ would be enough to feed a family for _months,_ and the Capitol has placed it all at the disposal of two people who might not even make it out of their stupid Games alive.

I glance over at Edmund. (1) His face is still frighteningly pale, but if it wasn't for that, his entire expression would read complete indifference. Save for the minor tremors wracking his skinny frame (which also scares me since it is quite warm within the car), he may as well pass for a marble statue.

Tyla Manx slips into the room from behind Edmund and I.

"Now, my pets, isn't this just lovely? Come, sit." She directs Edmund and me to places on the velvet couch. I make sure that none of the awe I am truly feeling inside registers in my expression as I sink into its depths. Furtively, I run my hands along the fabric. I have never felt anything so soft in my life.

"Behold, the Capitol Express!" Tyla exclaims, waving her arms with dramatic flourish before plopping down into a chair across from us. "What do you think, my dearies? Impressed?"

Edmund sighs heavily in response and begins picking at the ivory lace placemat spread on a mahogany table at his side. His eyes are devoid of any emotion, staring at nothing.

Tyla's eyes widen and her mouth pinches tight. Without warning, her perfectly manicured hand slaps down on top of Edmund's – hard. I wince in sympathy, somehow knowing in my heart that sweet Mrs. Leonidas is not the kind to hit her children. Edmund, on the other hand, seems unfazed by her actions. He simply drops his hands back down and stares at the fancy ashtray on the table as if it can help him disappear.

"Where are your manners, boy?" the hostess admonishes, flattening the spot on the placemat that Edmund has touched with her fingers. With a world-weary sigh, she looks down on him. "District 12 tribute though you are, it looks like we have a _lot_ of work to do with you if you're going to be _any_ hint of a success at the Capitol."

Her eyes rake over Edmund's skinny frame. Her gaze is sharp, and I'm reminded of my 5th grade teacher. She always managed to make us feel like she was tearing us apart just with her gaze. Edmund, who still has not looked up from his hands, seems to shrink into himself.

"Let the boy be, Tyla," Caspian says as he takes a seat next to Edmund. His voice is much different from the tones I have heard in the past. Deeper, darker, in a way. "I will give you dozens of that bloody cloth if you like."

Tyla rolls her eyes at the sole District 12 victor. "Acting like an uncivilized monkey will not get them anywhere, Caspian. You know that. If they are to have any hope of survival for any amount of time, we need to start _now_. Need I remind you of Dom and Aggie?"

Caspian and I gasp in unison. Caspian's gaze dims, while mine flits back to Edmund. He clenches and unclenches his fists, but otherwise keeps his face blank.

Dom Henkel and Aggie Shephard were last year's District 12 tributes. Save for the constantly famished expressions they wore, and their penchant for stuffing biscuits inside their pockets when they thought there were no cameras around, the skinny, awfully shy pair weren't remarkable to the viewers outside of our district (if their sparse screen time and pre-game interviews are anything to go by). I'm surprised Tyla remembers them at all.

The way she continues to look at Edmund as if he's a stinking pile of rubbish sitting across from her sparks an even more disgusting thought in me. Tyla remembers poor, unrefined Henkel and Shephard because their manners, or lack thereof, are burrowed deeply — vividly — in her judgmental brain. She doesn't remember them because they were people; she remembers them because they were failures in her eyes. From the looks of it, there is nothing more in the world that she hates with such passion. And that hatred has passed on to Edmund, for all she sees is another to-be failure in his actions.

My heart constricts with fury. I may not have known Henkel and Shephard very well, but I do know that both were 18-year-olds who worked tirelessly in the mines until the 69th Reaping ceremony. Both had younger brothers and sisters. Both had parents who called out their names with soul-crushing torment as they were dragged, pale and shaking, to the stage. They were someone else's beloved son or daughter, idolized older brother or sister, someone's lover. Someone so much more than their weaknesses and flaws – _more_ than what the Capital gave them credit for.

And Edmund I do know — or know of. Everyone loves him, much as they love Lucy and the rest of the "young ones" as they are labelled by us older crowd. His manners are impeccable; he is always polite to those throughout the District — and that fact is not just a testament to Mrs. Leonidas's training. I have always felt that there was a bit something more to Edmund Leonidas, something that is being hidden at the moment.

That a woman such as Tyla Manx, who wears flakes of real gold on her eyelids and diamonds in her earlobes, who gets food handed to her on silver platters while she lays languid on her bed, who probably hasn't experienced pain beyond cutting her fingertip on crisp Capitol banknotes, dares to reduce the unfortunate children of our district into scums of society –- and automatically categorizes Edmund Leonidas as such merely because he scratched at a bloody placemat –- breaks a dam of emotions within me. When I speak, I don't recognise my voice. Even my mother and sister, who are the word "valiant" in the flesh, would have balked at the timbre of authority that resonates from my throat and settles like an echo of power in my aching chest.

"You would do well to remember that, as tributes, you work for Edmund and me." I straighten my back and lift my chin, doing my best to channel the confidence I have to present when I go to sell meat at the Market.

"If I hear one more disrespectful word spoken about the fallen _children_ of our district, or see another disgusted glance directed towards my fellow tribute, I will make sure everyone who owns a TV set hears about the verbal and mental abuse you are subjecting us to."

Tyla reels back, her breath catching in her throat, before letting out a near-hysterical giggle. She leans forward once more and positions her arms in an elegant pose—presumably to feign confidence—but her complexion, which was eerily chalk-white before, pales to the point that Edmund appears almost tan in contrast. A victorious smile teases the corner of my lips even as she forms her rebuttal.

"You think my people would take your word over mine, little queen?" she spits, quirking a bleached brow. "You think my people would choose two tributes over one of their own? The word of two _urchins_ to a respected and powerful member of society?"

I lean forward as well, resting my own hand on one of the precious placemats that lies on the table to my left, and smile in a way that feels completely foreign and yet _right_ on my face. "I will make sure they will choose us. Over you. Over everyone else if need be."

For a moment, Tyla looks as if she's about to say something more threatening, but just then a ray of sunlight filters through the tree line and into the Capitol Express's crystal-clear windows. It lays around me, casting me in a strong, golden glow. My eyes ache to close from the intensity, but something, _someone_ , keeps them open. I stare bluntly at the first true enemy I have ever made in my life.

And then, for the next few seconds, something bizarre takes place. The train and the people around me disappear, and I am standing in a courtroom awash in golden light – the very same courtroom I saw Lucy regally walking on at the Reaping ceremony.

 _"To the Radiant Southern Sun, I give you, Queen Susan, the Gentle."_

A chill sweeps down my spine at the enigmatic timbre of the voice calling out. It is not a chill of dread though. It is one of longing and a sense that I should recognize the voice, but for some reason, do not. The strong, majestic voice and the vision of me being crowned are gone as quickly as they came, however.

When I perceive the Capitol Express once more, Tyla is nowhere in sight, but Caspian and Edmund are looking at me with the most peculiar expressions.

Written all over Caspian's kind, handsome face is pure awe. Gratitude. Respect. All at once, the confidence that had flooded me leaves. I duck my head, my cheeks hot. He doesn't say anything, but his eyes shine. I nod and smile at him, wordlessly communicating the honor I feel about having defended his deceased proteges from the hateful Capitol woman.

Edmund's expression, on the other hand, is everything but straightforward. Awe. Dismay. Gratitude. Anger. Respect. Disgust. They all flicker in and out of his face like the light of a dying lamp.

I am saved from having to question the impossible boy by Caspian suggesting that we drink some tea to prepare our stomachs for the massive feast awaiting us.

-oOo-

To say that our first meal courtesy of the Capitol is massive is, well, a _massive_ understatement. Caspian leads us into another car of the train. This one contains a large, rectangular marble table, primly set for a meal with 4 places grouped around one end. The richness of the furnishing continues into this car as well, and I know that no matter where I am to go on this train, lavishness will follow me.

We sit down and, less than a minute after Caspian presses a button somewhere on the side of our table, a young maid wearing a dull grey uniform and an expression akin to the hue of her clothing comes scurrying in. She places a giant pot brimming with soup in front of our faces. My cheeks colour from the steam rising from the pot, and from the effort of clamping down on the eagerness welling within me. It is Edmund, however, who blushes deep red when the first sound he makes since getting on the Capitol Express comes from the terrible growling of his stomach.

Mercifully, Caspian pretends not to hear as the maid ladles the soup into each of our porcelain bowls. A basket of aromatic bread comes next, peppered with herbs and spices I don't recognize (despite my vast knowledge of plants, thanks to years of helping my apothecary mum). Caspian takes it upon himself to load our plates with the mouthwatering loaves.

"They're just appetizers, but help yourself to as much as you want. The tea we just had should help you digest the food easier. Try not to overdo it, though, allow your stomachs time to get used to the food." our mentor says, looking eager, but probably not for the same reason we are.

Having won the Hunger Games over a decade ago, Caspian Telmar is no stranger to luxurious meals – or just plain luxury. I suppose seeing malnourished children eat such glorious fare for the first time in their lives is one of the simple pleasures he gets out of being a mentor. I smile to myself, marveling at the fact that, even though the Capitol took the young man's innocence and his supposed lady love, Leanna Kretzmer, somehow, they did not so much as touch his humanity and compassion.

Though there is no Tyla to complain about our lack of etiquette, I pick up my spoon with as much grace as I can muster, wrestling with the urge to lift the bowl off the table and sip directly from it. I stir the soup, noting with delight that it is thick – the consistency reminiscent of stew. Huge chunks of what looks like chicken meat, carrots, asparagus and corn kernels surface as I move the spoon in a circular pattern. All the while the unidentifiable herbs intensify the wonderful aroma. This "appetizer" is a complete meal in itself.

Something warm and wet slides down my cheek – the one thankfully facing away from my companions – as I take in the foreign meal in front of my face.

Dear Aslan, I would give _anything_ , probably my very life, to be able to share this meal with Lucy. With my mum; to have had the funds these past few years to be able to provide something as rich and filling for them during the winter.

Someone sniffs, and I don't have to look up from my stirring to know that my fellow tribute is sharing my inner turmoil.

Lucy and Peter – their faces as they stood side by side, Peter's arm wrapped like a protective cloak around my sister's shoulder (2), pierce through my ruminations. I find it hard to swallow the first spoonful around the lump in my throat. However, as the food settles into my stomach, hunger takes over, and it isn't long until the bowl is scraped clean.

Caspian smiles as Edmund and I put down our spoons almost at the same time.

"Did you enjoy it?" he asks.

"Yes," I answer.

"It was delicious," Edmund states quietly. A little colour has seeped back into his cheeks now that he has eaten something, but he is still shaking slightly, and sweat beads his forehead.

This time, when the maid returns, I do not hesitate before eating.

We feast on so many dishes. Mashed potatoes drowning in gravy, herbed roast turkey, slabs of tender beef drenched in flavourful sauce, prawns so huge they looked frightening, and so many others I don't recognise.

Edmund Leonidas looks like a completely different person as the time goes on. It's amazing what a full meal can do to a person who understands hunger in ways even I cannot fathom.

His cheeks are now bright pink, his eyes shining like a pair of amber stones in the high noon sun. He is also opening a tiny bit more to Caspian, trading small remarks with him about life in the District every now and then. He refuses to answer any questions about his family, and grows more distant at the memory of them. However, when Caspian talks about how he had sent bits and pieces of crustacean shell flying all over the hostess' face at his very first Capitol Express meal, his body folds nearly in half with laughter.

My second cup of tea sits untouched in front of me as I take in this spectacle. My thoughts drift back to Lucy, and how this merry, vibrant Edmund reminds me so strongly of her. And Peter, oh! He would love to see his brother this way! He looks so alive, so different from the pale, shivering boy who said nothing and seemed as though he felt nothing, too, when we first boarded.

"A penny for your thoughts, Susan?"

I am broken out of my reverie by Caspian's gentle tones. I glance his way to see him staring at me. His brow is puckered.

"I was simply thinking about my family," I answer slowly. "Lucy would love this." I swallow hard. "Tales of princesses and courts have always been her favorite. She loves — loved — it when I describe the castles."

I lower my head, twisting my fingers together and willing the tears not to fall. Will I ever see Lucy again?

A gentle hand settles on my shoulder.

"I can make no promises to you, Susan Pevensie." Caspian's voice is soft before me. "I have lost many such as you in my time as a mentor. But I this I do swear," He turns my head so we are looking each other in the eyes. "I will do all that I can to prepare you for the coming trials." He shifts so he is including Edmund in the conversation. "Both of you. You will not enter that Arena unprotected and unprepared."

Before either of us can answer, the door to the car opens, and the maid comes in. This time she is pushing a trolley decked with pastries and candies before her. Caspian rises to his feet, and returns to his seat. I hastily wipe my eyes and turn to thank the girl as she places a slice of chocolate cake in front of me. She nods, then turns and puts a crystal bowl of something red and powdery squarely on Edmund's placemat.

At first I can't tell whether it is curiosity or confusion causing his wide, brown eyes to grow even wider, but when his shaking comes back with a vengeance and his breathing turns into gasping, my own confusion turns into full-blown concern. I reach out to pull the bowl of sweets away, but Caspian beats me to it. One hand shoves it the flabbergasted maid's way, and the other grips Edmund's shoulder with bruising force.

"Edmund? Edmund! What's wrong?" Caspian barks, the urgency in his voice driving icicles of fear into my heart.

The paper-white, glassy-eyed boy says nothing, and instead vomits everything he has eaten for the past hour onto our mentor's lap.

-oOo-

Eh… Hehe… Poor Caspian. I know Edmund has it worse, but that last sentence couldn't have been fun for him. What do you think, though? Let us know in the reviews. :-D It will totally make our hectic days slightly better.

Random question (Again. Sorry.): Has anyone of you had Turkish Delight? What do you guys think of the taste? I've had it once. And I'm sorry to say to those of you who are fans/are Turkic people that I didn't like it very much. :'( To each their own, though, and if it makes you feel better, we have a delicacy in the Philippines called "balut" (boiled duck embryo eaten from the shell – baby bird bones, beak, hair and all!) and William Moseley flat out refused to eat it when he visited my country. He looked kind of green just talking about it in his interviews (he called it "half-dead chick"). :-P

(1) To everyone expecting Chapter Nine to be written in Edmund's POV, I'm really sorry. One of the reasons why it took us ages to put this up was trying to write from his POV. I wrote about 400 words until I realized I'm not going to get much out of Ed when he's being all broody and closed off like this. If you would remember, Peter whispered something to his brother at the end of Chapter Six, and the younger boy has been quite unhinged since. Don't you fret, though, The Just's League (eh hehe… I'm so lame. I can never do humor. Good luck for when I have to bring out Edmund's witty, delightfully sarcastic side) – Chapter 10 will be written from Edmund's POV. CoffeeRanger already has brilliant ideas for it so you ought to be excited! My co-author and sister-in-Christ is simply the best. :)

(2) If you want more of the moment between Lucy and Peter referenced in this story, search up **A Brother's Sorrow** (and **A Brother's Betrayal** while you're at it!) by CoffeeRanger. I suggest you keep a box of tissues within reach before reading, just in case.

"But as for you, be strong and do not give up, for your work will be rewarded." – 1 Chronicles 4:10

TO GOD BE THE GLORY!


	10. Tales of Betrayal

You've waited ** _long_** (intentional italics, bold and underline there) enough so I'll save the notes at the end. Let me just take this opportunity to thank everyone who read and reviewed Chapter 9! Over 10 reviews are such a personal best for this story!

Thank you, **_CoffeeRanger_** (intentional super emphasis there as well), for penning more than half of this chapter and making it such a rewarding experience to build it up. Writing things using Edmund's voice has always been extremely challenging for me. This is the first time that I actually enjoyed it.

Thank you **, Xnia Red, Guest, Cloudoffeathers, and KP**! You guys are the best! God bless you all!

-oOo-

 **CHAPTER TEN: TALES OF BETRAYAL**

 _Peter is used to me puking all over him_.

I splash my face with cold water at the sink, choking on a sob as I brace myself against the porcelain washbowl with a white-knuckled grip. Memories of my older brother getting covered in sick and bile swirl through my pounding head.

All the times I had been too stubborn to admit I was once again suffering from the cold—only to end up moaning and shaking in bed, unable to keep half a bowl of soup down. Peter would be there, basin in hand. Unfortunately, the great lummox always hugged me to his chest after I'd dry-heaved on the basin, and instead of pushing me away or jumping off to the side to avoid the nasty projectile he _could_ sense was coming, he would let me upchuck everything on his shirt, rubbing my back and making sure the sheets didn't get soiled. Leave it to Peter Alexander Leonidas (1) to care more about my stupid bedsheets than his own person.

I glare at myself in the mirror, bemused at the change in my complexion from sickly-white to beet red. Caspian tried to maintain gentle expression over getting covered in half-regurgitated food, but he _must_ have been disgusted. I know I _am._

Peter is the only one who can take such rubbish from me. I need Peter. I _need_ my brother. I can't believe I'm looking for Peter to be my human basin instead of Caspian, but I would trade all my limbs for the chance to be squashed against his chest right now, his warm, callused hands rubbing circles on my back, his voice whispering softly, " _It's all right, Ed, you're all right. I'm all right. No need to be sorry. Shhh… It's all right_."

Someone knocks on the door and I jump out of my skin, rendering me lightheaded. Shaking slightly, I push myself off the sink and get out the bathroom. I wait for the person on the other side of the door to speak, just in case it's Tyla and I need summon all the chivalry and willpower I'd seen Peter demonstrate to keep from disrespecting a woman.

"Edmund, are you all right?"

 _Caspian_. I feel myself go pale again. _Oh Aslan_ , _I would much rather face Tyla at this moment._ I reach for the knob and turn it before I could lose what little is left of my nerves and take a step back to let the man in.

Our mentor gives me a critical once-over before sitting on a chair next to the bed I have been told will be mine as we journey to the Capitol. He motions for me to sit on the mattress and I do, taking a couple of seconds to appreciate its softness. I notice that Caspian has a fresh pair of trousers on, but didn't bother donning a new shirt. _Strange_. Had Tyla been there during my "episode", she would have ordered complete sterilization of the Capitol Express.

I look at Caspian underneath my lashes. The concern and confusion that clouded his visage at the table has returned en force.

"Feel better now?"

"A little bit," I murmur, opting to pick at the calluses on my hands ("Stop that, Ed, you'll make your hands bleed," mother-hen Peter warns inside my head). I don't really understand why Caspian is still here. I'm a tribute, and a tribute who just threw up on his lap at that. He shouldn't care what happens to me. He shouldn't be forming attachments with us, no matter how flimsy those attachments may be. He should be protecting himself from the inevitable heartbreak, or washing the blood from his hands. Still, I can't help but be glad that he's here; seeing one kind face is a small measure of comfort.

"Are you sure?" Caspian asks, frowning slightly. "You still look pale. Would you like some water?"

I swallow hard against the nausea that rises at the thought of eating or drinking anything. I shake my head. "No, thank you."

"All right." He pulls his chair closer to my bed. "Care to explain what happened at the dining room?"

I wince. I _do not_ want to talk about how I unleashed my lunch all over you, Sir, thank you very much. However, I know Caspian will not leave the subject alone until I explain.

"It was the Turkish Delight," I begin slowly. "It… reminded me of something. A time someone I love got hurt very badly because of my selfishness. Those memories, coupled with everything that's happened today…Well… It was a bit too much. I'm sorry for the mess I caused," I finished.

Caspian shakes his head. "Don't worry about it. I was more concerned that you were all right."

"Why?" I ask. More bitterness bleeds into my tone than I originally intend. "We're just going to die anyway. Why hurt yourself by getting to know us? By caring? It would be better if you were like Tyla."

His shoulders slump, his eyes deaden. "You're right. It would be easier. But it would only be easier for me, and harder for you. I didn't have a mentor when I was a tribute, and Kami, my fellow tribute, she—she was just inconsolable. There was nothing I could do for her."

My face falls and I lower my head. I was only a year old when Caspian became a tribute, but he talks about everything as though it happened yesterday. With the Games imposed upon us nearly every day of our lives, it must be so for him.

He lifts a hand and I wince, unsure what he is about to do (as if the kind, soft-spoken man would hit you, idiot!), but he merely tugs at my chin so I am looking directly at him, "You and Susan do not need another person who does not care about you."

He swallows thickly. "As much as I wish to, I cannot save you from the Arena. But I can give you what the Capitol won't give you. I can give you an ally; I can give you kindness; I can give you understanding. I will make these days as pleasant as possible. I will prepare the two of you to the best of my abilities. To do so, I have to get to know the both of you."

My throat clenches with pain at the warmth, care, and dedication in his words. I know that Susan and I aren't the only tributes he has opened himself up to and for. Year after year of opening himself up and he can still find it in himself to be kind? To not be cynical? It's nothing if not amazing and miraculous.

"Thank you, Caspian." I cough to clear my increasingly tightening throat. His eyes sharpen with concern, and I wrestle with the urge to roll mine. By Aslan, he's as bad as my brother! One cough and they look at me like I'm having a stroke. "But don't waste your time and concern on someone already marked for death."

Caspian's expression turns from concern to disapproval, "Don't you dare, Edmund. You are _not_ just giving up."

I smile tightly. "You know the rules, Caspian. There can be only one winner. I won't fight Susan. I _won't._ Not when I owe her my life and swore to her sister I would do everything I can to make sure she makes it home. I betrayed Peter before — I will not make that same mistake twice."

Caspian looks ready to argue, or smack me. His face is almost the same shade Peter's would get before he'd slap me upside my head. I begin talking again before he can do either.

"Please, Caspian, don't argue. You won't change my mind. I would ask that you help me, though. You said that you want to help us, but I beg you, concentrate on Susan. She'll be well-liked in the Capitol, I know she will be. She'll get sponsors without fail. Help her play on that success. Highlight her brilliance that everyone will know and want to protect her. I don't care what happens to me. Make me vile if it will further her cause. But please, give her everything you can."

Caspian vehemently shakes his head. "You can't ask me that, Edmund. I _won't_ sacrifice one of you for the other."

I harden my expression. "I'm not asking you to sacrifice one of us. I've made that choice. I'm just asking you to honor that choice and devote your efforts to Susan. They'll be wasted on me."

"And what of your family?" Caspian's tone is as cold and sharp as a sword. "What will your brother and mother think when they have to watch you throw your life away?"

My mind flies back to District 12 and to Peter and Mum. Mum will be broken, as will Peter. But they've dealt with this before, when Dad died. They will move on just as they did then. And hopefully, if Aslan blesses my endeavor, my death will drive those harebrained ideas of rebellion out of Peter's head.

I've seen how the life seemed to flicker out of my brother's eyes every time he thought I was breathing my last. Everything about him except for his hand in mine would go limp, his soul dying along with my body. Yes, if I were to die, Peter would have no reason to fight for anything, and yet he's far too selfless to leave Mum alone in her pain. For Mum he would live, if only just. Better a Peter who is dead inside than altogether dead… right?

An unearthly roar of anger reverberates inside my head and I gasp, feeling as if someone wants to chastise me, or drive my selfish thoughts out with the sheer power of that roar. Caspian grasps my shoulders, but I shake him off, hard, as if in defying his compassion I could also defy whoever or whatever it is that wants to stop me from standing my ground.

"I'm not planning on throwing myself to the nearest dagger, Caspian!" I snarl. "My family will move on, just as they've had to in the past. They'd much rather my death be in defense of a friend than for me to return home at the expense of that friend's life!"

"There is no guarantee you two would be the last two left." Caspian points out.

"No," I admit, and it's true. There's nothing that guarantees Susan and I will even make it past the bloodbath that always is at the _cornucopia_. "But there is a greater chance for Susan to be one of the last if she has allies that aren't trying to win as well. I can't give her much help, but I can give her that. With the two of us working together, she'll have an even bigger chance."

Caspian looks ready to continue arguing. I sigh.

"Caspian, please. Susan has an opportunity for a future. I don't. She deserves your help more than I do."

"What do you mean?" Caspian's voice is hoarse and his eyes are probing. I'm amazed by his ability to read between my words. He could tell I'm not simply underestimating my abilities. That there is _more_. How he is able to do that, I haven't a clue, but it isn't helping my cause.

I clench my jaw a few times. Even though he needs to know, it _is_ hard to divulge a secret I have kept since my birth. With a weary sigh, and a queer feeling that I'm betraying the nine-year-old Peter who made five-year-old Edmund promise not to tell anyone " _our super top secret about your little lungs_ ", I tell Caspian Telmar everything.

"I am not… not well. I never have been. I've battled asthma my entire life. My lungs… they try to give out on me every winter. I've almost died more times than I can count. Only Peter and Mum's hard work and dedication have kept me here. You… you know how hard work is in District 12. I can't work in the mines." I look up at him. "I-I had to, for a short while, last year. Long-term will kill me just as surely as an arrow will. I won't be a burden to my family, and I will not allow them to suffer through having to watch me fade away or be dragged away by the Peacekeepers because the truth finally becomes known. They deserve better than that." I take a deep breath, willing away the tears that speaking the truth has brought to my eyes. "Susan has the chance for a good life with her family. How can I be one of those to try to take that away from her? How can I be one of the reasons why she has less of a chance to go home to her family?"

The tears slip down my cheeks despite my best attempts, blurring my vision. It doesn't matter that I can't see, though, because Caspian reaches out and pulls me to him. He wraps his arms around me, holding me tight. I close my eyes and let him squash my head against his chest, feeling the pain caused by the ferocious roar earlier ebb away.

"You aren't holding your family back, Edmund. They love you and would never consider you a burden," He says gently yet firmly, as if he believes them beyond a doubt. "I saw the way your brother looked when you volunteered. He was devastated. He will be utterly broken if you die — as will your mother. Do not measure your worth to the lives of others. They are different, but that does not mean your life is worth nothing. "

I snort. "We both know that isn't true. The Capitol has assigned worth to each individual and I _will_ be found lacking, for sure. The only reason I have made it this long is because of my family."

I pull back so that I can look him in the eyes. "I _don't_ mind, Caspian. I have long ago accepted that truth. Please, don't despair over me. One over-emotional brother is enough. Help me fight the Capitol in the only way I can. They want to see betrayal, friend against friend. Help me show them and the Districts that that does not always have to happen."

He sighs deeply. "It isn't right. None of this is right."

I laugh. "No. But when have our lives ever been defined by what is 'right'? Will you help me?"

 _Please Aslan, let him help me. Soften his heart. Protect Susan. Let her go home to her family._

Caspian clenches his teeth, but nods. "If you are sure this is what you want…"

My shoulders slump in relief. "It is. Thank you, Caspian."

"Don't thank me. I feel like I am throwing you to the wolves."

"You aren't. I am stepping in willingly and happily."

Caspian doesn't respond to that and simply pulls me back in for another hug, complaining about my insubstantial weight and refusal to eat again. I don't pull away, but I do let out an indignant groan for the sake of being insufferable. I'm surprised by my willingness to act like my old, pigheaded self with someone I've barely known for a day, but I let myself just be for the first time.

Instead I give Aslan thanks, for sending someone to be my strength and comfort when I needed my brother the most. He may not be Peter, but Caspian already feels like family just the same. A brother I do not deserve, just as I don't deserve my own flesh and blood sibling—a sibling I intend to leave behind with nothing but pain and more betrayal.

"At least eat some dry toast and thin soup, Eddie," Caspian tries one more time.

My mind automatically forms a snarky rebuttal for being called that horrid nickname. I am about to say, "Only Peter has the right to call me 'Eddie,'" but instead my mouth forms other words.

"Only if you fetch them for me yourself."

-oOo-

She stalks toward me, her long, rusty dagger poised in the air. My insides turn to liquid, but I am not about to relinquish my right for the white stag. I caught it fair and square with a net expertly woven by my brother. This prize is _ours_. (2)

I open my mouth to give the witch of a woman a piece of my mind, but as soon as she's standing a foot away, I freeze, liquefied guts turning into ice. I try to take a step back, only to realise that my feet are locked, as if something has nailed them to the forest floor.

I always thought I would die of asthma at home, surrounded by Mum, Peter, and our beloved friend Lillian Pelletier. (3) I've never had the greatest stack of cards in life, but to have this hateful, murderous creature's face be the last thing I see before I depart is just downright sad, so I close my eyes and brace myself for the killing blow…

Only to hear Peter's pained, gurgling gasp as metal meets flesh. My eyes pop open just in time to see him go down; a large, horizontal wound almost tearing his body in half. I throw myself forward to catch him, but he is too heavy for my lanky frame and we both crash to the ground.

"Peter…" I choke, sobbing in a way that would have invited mockery from my older brother if he isn't dying in my arms at the moment. "Peter… Why…"

"Don't… cry…"

He raises a hand weakly; I grasp it—immediately feeling something odd scratch against my palm.

"Got it… for… you…" he says with a smile, teeth stained a mesmerizing crimson.

I open my palm.

And promptly feel my heart atrophy inside my chest.

It's Turkish Delight. Sweet, powdery Turkish Delight the colour of Peter's lifeblood spreading onto the forest floor.

I throw my head back and let out a blood-curdling scream.

-oOo-

"Edmund! Edmund! Wake up! You're all right!"

I bolt upright in bed, drenched in cold sweat and shaking like a leaf. I blink a dozen times to clear my vision; to chase away the remnants of my disturbing nightmare. When my eyes have more or less adjusted, I see Susan Pevensie leaning over me, face even whiter than the night gown she is wearing.

"Susan," I manage between gasps. "What are you doing here?'"

She whispers something tremulously under her breath, something about a pendant glowing hot against her skin and hearing my screams—through the soundproof walls of our bedrooms, that is. I scratch my sweat-matted head, confused as to who between us had a more messed up brain at the moment.

"What? I didn't—I didn't catch that. Su—"

Large beads of tears fall from her eyes. My heart clenches painfully at the sight.

"Edmund, you—" she swipes at the tears and sits tentatively on the mattress, looking at my face with such sorrow and pity, "you sounded like… like your heart was being torn out of your chest. Like evil itself was torturing you."

My nightmare comes back to me, as vivid as a clear spring day. I squeeze my eyes shut, fighting off yet another urge to throw up. Susan must have sensed my distress for she jumps off the bed to get some water, but before she could leave, I grab a hold of her wrist.

"Please stay."

-oOo-

And stay she does. She holds me, like my mother did when I was little and felt bad for not making it to any sports team because of the "top secret about my little lungs", like Lillian did whenever Peter took too long to come back from work, like someone would hold a loved one they wish to protect with their very life.

Why must every single person on this train mess with my game plan?

Still, I let her stay, so I could tell her about the Turkish Delight; how I'd been a poisonous little beast who threw a fit when Peter had offered to get me something else for my eight birthday; how my one and only older brother came home that night, bleeding and barely breathing, after being beaten nearly to death by the sweet shop owner's husband and their burly sons.

I tell her about how I'd heard Peter cry to Mum as she tended to his injuries; how he volunteered to work at the sweet shop to earn his present for me; how the husband discovered he was 'stealing' goods and money from their store when he opened his knapsack; how he whistled for his two sons so they could join him in punishing the "dirty little thief."

Finally, I tell her about how Mum cried like her heart was being torn out of her chest… like evil itself was torturing her… because the woman who owned the shop that sold the sweets I crave so much… was the same wench who had tried to steal Dad from her—and had failed, terribly so.

I tell her not to make excuses for how I had acted because of my age and lack of knowledge, just like Peter's best friend Lillian once did. She doesn't make a single remark about my revelations. She simply hugs me to an inch of my life, tells me I am a good brother, and that it would have been an honour to have had me as her younger sibling along with the most wonderful human being that is Lucy Pevensie.

My response to her kindness and generous comparison to her sister is to plop back down on the bed, turn my back, and mutter a rather rude "you can leave now." Empting my soul to not only one, but two strangers in one day is rather tiring. Tiring and trying. I reckon that I won't even have the strength to conjure nightmares again when I get back to sleep.

When my senses are barely clutching to the tendrils of consciousness, I feel Susan press something against my palm—something simultaneously cool and warm against my skin, and vibrates with the most beautiful birdsong the more I hold on to it. I press the warm part of the trinket (a necklace, perhaps?) against my chest as I surrender to sleep—to dreams of clear blue skies, glistening seas, and great woods offset by a radiant sun.

-oOo-

(1) Trivia: Peter's middle name "Alexander" first appeared in a romantic story about Peter and his lady love that CoffeeRanger sent to me as a birthday present. I decided to keep it here as (a) "Peter Alexander" sounds super awesome, and (b) The Russian variation, "Aleksandr", means "protector of men". I thought that was super awesome as well, especially for our High King. :)

(2) I know the waiting time between updates is egregious and that can mess with people's memories about the story. Just a refresher: in chapters 1-2, it is mentioned that a tall, witch-like woman stabbed Edmund when he and Peter caught the mythical white stag. Keep this evil woman in mind. She might drop a bomb or two in the coming chapters. ;-)

(3) Lillian Pelletier is this AH-MAZING original female character created by CoffeeRanger. The name first appeared in Chapter 3 of **A Brother's Betrayal** – a sister story to King and Lionheart which delves into the argument referenced in the second chapter of this book.

I hope the Turkish Delight backstory didn't disappoint at all, especially after I tried building the tension in the chapters leading up to this one. I don't know why it makes me nervous. Yes, it doesn't come close to Edmund's betrayal arc in The Lion, The Witch, and The Wardrobe, but this story being very "AU", I think it's going to be hard to restructure certain elements in Narnia canon with exactly the same impact. Please be assured, however, that Edmund's "traitor streak" or whatever it might be that some "strict" fans want to see will not be swept under the rug. It will be handled in a different manner a handful of chapters from now.

Once again, thanks to each and everyone of you for your lovely reviews! Each one puts a smile on my face and blesses me beyond words! I'll try my best to improve this whole updating situation. My co-author is not to blame. If you're following her, you know she updates at a reasonable pace. It's with me that the plot bunnies are usually stuck in some literary traffic.

 ** _"Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest." – Matthew 11:28_**


	11. Entreat Me Not to Leave Thee

So... It's been an **ATROCIOUSLY** long wait for Chapter 11. I'm not even sure if you guys are still reading. I hope you are, because I really **LOVE** this chapter. Mad props and great love to my co-author and friend, **CoffeeRanger** , without whom this chapter would never have been written. My friend, the biggest of THANK YOU for writing this chapter. I hope my additions do not disappoint. But seriously, I cried when I first read the draft you sent! Helen's lines are soooo heartbreaking (readers beware!) :'(

All right. I have plenty of excuses (which I think are valid because I'm having a pretty rough 2018 so far), but bother with them all! Let's just get to it. If you're still here and are planning to stick around for the next chapters (we'll try our hardest to put up the next chapter within the week because this story's been dormant for so long!), you have my eternal gratitude! Thank you, **Serena Edmunds** , **All4Aslan** , and **Aslan's Daughter.** You guys are blessings from Heaven above!

-oOo-

 **CHAPTER ELEVEN: ENTREAT ME NOT TO LEAVE THEE**

 _No, you can't! Please, Peter!_

Edmund's agonized pleas still ring in my head as Mum and I make our way slowly back home. I fancy that my arms are still warm with the memory of holding him – of having him close after a year of estrangement. It hurts to have done such a thing to him – to have caused him such hurt. But it was necessary.

 _It was necessary_. I repeat this to myself again and again in the hopes of chasing away the guilt, but it only turns into doubt, fear, _despair_. Like being trapped in the coal mines when a section of the cave collapsed. All the lights went out and there was total, pitch-black darkness that we thought we had all gone bli—

I shake my head before I give myself a panic attack, embracing self-blame once more. I can endure the pressure of guilt in my chest, but not the fear that I might never see my brother _alive_ again.

 _Please, Peter._

I scoff. Those same words passed Edmund's lips far too often during the last year. _Please, Peter, just say something?_ _Please, Peter, let me hunt with you today?_ _Peter, please_. I miss you _, big brother._ They tapered off little by little until he stopped breaking through my wall of ice, building one of his own to protect himself from being constantly denied. And oh, how cold Edmund was when pushed to his limits! We both have been idiotically stubborn this past year, it's a wonder we hadn't brought eternal winter to Charn all by ourselves.

Still, the last thing he said to me was that same old plea. _Please, Peter_. Only this time, there was wild panic in his eyes instead of dejection. This time I had to deny him not because of my own pride, but because it was the only way I knew to give him a fighting chance.

I steal a glance at Mum who is walking beside me. Her face has paled considerably when the Peacekeepers dragged Edmund away from us and is yet to regain its colour. She didn't say anything earlier, and still hasn't let out so much as a sigh. I know she's waiting until we reach the safety of our house before asking me questions. That leaves me time to try and figure out what to say. But how do I explain?

 _Look away, Magnificent King._

Aslan's words. From what I remember of Dad's stories about the great lion, He spoke in much clearer fashion, or perhaps Dad just had a way of explaining things simply to children. What in Charn He means by calling me "Magnificent King," I haven't a clue. I am the _farthest_ thing from a king. A king would be able to do something about what is happening in our world. A king would be able to stop President Snow. A king would have the power to end the Games once and for all. A king would be able to protect his family, let alone his one and only sibling.

The title notwithstanding, the rest of Aslan's words don't make much sense either.

 _It is time that you and the Valiant Queen set your eyes upon the Western Wood._

There is nothing _in_ the Western Wood. Edmund and I have hunted there many times. It's a good spot for game, with enormous trees allegedly older than Charn itself (quite frankly, they used to scare the heavens out of Edmund and me when we were younger – we half expected them to start murmuring or moving out of place for some reason), but other than that it's quite desolate. There are no signs whatsoever of a militia, or any human being save for us brothers, the Pevensie sisters, and that witch of a woman who nearly killed Ed. Why would Aslan direct me there? Furthermore, _who_ is the Valiant Queen?

I have no more time to think about these because we arrive at our house. Mum ushers me in ahead of her, then goes over to the stove and puts on the kettle. I sit down at the table, knowing this is what she wants, and brace myself for the onslaught of questions.

Silence reigns until the teapot whistles. Then, without turning around, Mum begins the questioning.

"What did you say to him?"

She finishes up making the tea then comes to sit across from me, setting two mugs on the table, for once not bothering to place coasters underneath them.

I hold mine close like a shield of sorts, trying to figure out once more what to say.

"Don't think about lying to me, Peter Leonidas. Just tell me word for word what you told Edmund. There should have been no reason for him to react the way he did."

I sigh. "I - I told him that I wasn't going to leave him to die in the Games. They've gone on long enough; it's time for someone to do something." I squeeze my hands together, remembering the desperation on Edmund's face. "I told him that he needed to hold on until I got there because I'm coming to get him, no matter what."

I look up to see Mum frowning at me. I barrel on before she can say anything. "I had to give him something to hold on to! You know Ed. He'll do his best, but if he thinks it'll put someone else in danger, he won't fight." My gaze flicks around the table, to her face, then back again, unable to stay in one place for long.

"By telling him I will be doing everything to get him back, he'll have a reason to fight." I sigh, knowing that there's no way Edmund will ever fight the other contestants. It's not him – he's not a cold-blooded killer. "Or at least have a reason to try as hard as he can to stay alive for as long as he can." I finally look up to meet Mum's eyes, begging her to understand. "He won't try and stay alive for himself, but he will for me – for us. So, yes, I did make him panicked, but I had to. If there had been any other way to get him to fight, I would have taken it."

Mum blows out a weary breath, one of the tell-tale signs that she's reining in her temper. "Peter, the reason behind this hare-brained scheme aside, how do you plan on accomplishing it? You're talking about taking on the Capitol. They _can't_ be defeated. All you've done is divided Edmund's concern between the two of you. You know he won't simply concentrate on himself. This past year should have taught you that more than anything."

I flinch at the reminder of Edmund's actions this past year and my own. However, Mum's not done talking.

"He'll be worried about you when he should be worried about keeping himself alive. And if, Aslan forbid, he's believed what you told him?"

I clutch my mug tighter between my hands, savoring the fiery sensation on my palms from the still scalding tea because by Aslan, Mum's disbelieving tone hurts.

She stands up and paces in the small space between her chair and the counter. "Peter, you'd have given him false hope." She turns back to face me, anguish written all over her face. "He trusts your words almost more than he trusts my own. If you told him you could jump over the sun, there'd be a small part of him that will believe just that. And now you've told him you will be saving him from the Games? Peter! He'll be sitting there amidst that horror – having to experience everything the Gamemakers throw at him – with a bit of him expecting at any time for you to come in and scoop him away. Can't you see how that's worse than anything the Capital can do to him? To give him that false hope?"

Tears spring to her eyes and course down her cheeks. I will my own tears away, daring my self-will to betray me and prove that I am less than capable in front of Mum right now.

"But it's not false!" I cry, springing to my feet. My mug lurches and some of the tea spills out, burning my hand, but I barely flinch.

Mum's words are like unrelenting blows, rendering me breathless. Yes. I know it was cruel to shove my plans onto Edmund the way I did. But I didn't have luxury of time to do it otherwise. And to say that telling him I'm going to rescue him is worse than what the Capital could do (did she see how the Gamemakers flooded out the arena with lava amidst Leanna Kretzmer's prayer? The agony in Caspian Telmar's face as he watched her burn before his eyes?) … There are no words to describe how it makes me feel. Truly. To say that I've been obliterated wouldn't even suffice.

I know Edmund's trust in me borders on unhealthy. How many times, when he was younger, did his tears and fears on Reaping Day disappear as soon as I told him "I'll be fine, Eddie. Just you wait and see."? How many times did he hold on for me – forcing his body to take just one more breath and then another and another because I asked him to and told him it would get better soon? I had used that trust in me many times and was using it once more now. I could only pray that I would not fail my brother just when he needs me to be able to keep my word the most.

"It's not false." I repeat, squaring my shoulders.

"Peter – " Mum frowns and moves to sit back down.

"No, Mum." I shake my head. "It's not a false hope. I _will_ get Edmund out of there."

"How?" Mum shouts, throwing her arms up in the air. "How are you going to do that, Peter? You're talking about going up against Peacekeepers, the Gamemakers, the Government, the President! You can't do that! You're just one person. There's no way you can do all that by yourself."

"I won't be on my own. I'll get others to help me. I can name about twenty coal miners willing to fight for Ed off the top of my head, Mum. We can do this. It's not just our family that has been torn apart by the Games. Others have as well. They're every bit as ready to fight as I am."

"You mean they're every bit as ready to _kill_ themselves as you are, Peter!"

Mum kneels next to me and grasps my head in her hands, pressing my face gently against her mid-section. "Peter, it's suicide. Even if you do manage to get people together without being caught and killed, how will you fight them? We have no weapons, nothing that can match the powers they possess."

She's still crying and the hands that hold my head are shaking. "I've already lost your father. I might lose Edmund to these bloody Games before this month is over. Please, I can't lose you as well. Please. Don't make me lose you."

Her hands fall from my face onto my shoulder. Her face falls to hit my chest. "Aslan, please don't take him from me," she whispers, sobs punctuating her every word. "Please, _please_."

It breaks my heart to hear Mum – and older, female mirror-image of my brother – whisper the same broken litany that Edmund had this past year. But I can't – _won't_ – waver in my conviction. I told Edmund I was coming for him, and, by Aslan, I _am_ coming for him.

Let it be so, or death take me.

"I'm sorry, Mum," I whisper, bringing my own hands up to cup her tear-stained face. "But I can't let Edmund die without doing something. I wasn't able to do anything to save Dad, but I can for Edmund. I'm going for him, no matter what you say."

My words seem to snap something inside her. With a cry, Mum shoves me away from her so that my chair rocks back, nearly falling over. Rising to her feet, she lifts her chin and clenches her fists.

"Fine then! If you wish to rob me of every single one of my family, I can't stop you. But I won't help you, Peter. By Aslan, I _won't_ help you."

With that harsh declaration, she turns and leaves the house, slamming the door behind her. Our house, the only world Mum, Edmund and I have ever known, rocks from the force of her wrath.

I slam the table with my bunched fists with all the force of my own anger, tipping over the now tepid mug of tea. The content spills completely over the surface of the old oak furniture, bringing its imperfections to stark contrast.

There is that splintered spot that Edmund picks on habitually. I brace my forehead on my hands, suddenly faint just thinking about my annoying little brother, never doing these annoying little things that irritate me ever again.

I stand on quivering legs, feeling strangely claustrophobic in our empty house. I head towards the room I share with my Edmund to retrieve my bow and quiver and arrows—a bit of hunting and routine should keep me from losing my mind—and was instantly hit by a tidal wave of sorrow seeing his things interspersed with mine all over the tiny space. Worn sandals, trousers, socks, dirty laundry, textbooks, bric-a-bracs we gave each other when we were little. His own bow and quiver hanging on a peg next to mine (I'd appropriated his share of arrows last year – when I was adamant that he wasn't going hunting with me), our matching hunting knives, and a plethora of stuff he couldn't throw away, saying the detectives in the novels he'd read don't just discard things.

With shaking hands, I reach out for an old, moth-eaten, leather-bound book, sitting on the nightstand next to the bed Edmund and I used to share (before I had taken to sleeping in the living room). The golden inscription indicating the title has long since faded with time and frequent use, but I know it to be the sacred book: Aslan's Deepest Magic. The words written all over the Stone Table, invisible to the naked eye but somehow managed to find its way to man's consciousness and into this volume.

For all that I claim to know Edmund's every habit, I'd forgotten about his insistence to reflect on the Words every morning on Reaping Day (despite my ardent discouragements in the past). Carefully, I flip through the worn book. It opens to a section parted by a piece of string – Edmund's bookmark. Underlined in blue ink are passages from **_Alambil 2:17-23:*_**

 ** _"Entreat me not to leave thee, or to turn away from following after thee - for whither thou goest, I will go, and where thou lodgest, I will lodge. Thy people shall be my people, and thy King my King. Where thou diest, will I die, and there will I be buried. The Lion do so to me, and more also, if aught but death part thee and me." *_**

I squeeze my eyes shut, forcing out the tears I thought I had willed away. I close the book and kiss the cover reverently and pray to my brother, hoping against hope that he would somehow hear.

"Please, Edmund, wait for me. I'm coming for you, little brother. Just wait for me. Keep in one piece. Keep _breathing_. Please, Ed. Please, stay alive until I arrive. Please. _Please_."

 ** _Alambil (the Lady of Peace according to Narnian canon) 2:17-23 is derived from Ruth 1:16-22*_**


	12. Hadassah and Helen

Again, I would like to apologi-

Oh, bother it all! I know you all would rather jump back to the story than read my grovelling for mercy. ***Important Notes*** at the end, though. I think this is going to be a bit of a controversial chapter. Hopefully the closing notes will clear certain things up.

As per usual, greatest **LOOOOOOOVE** and gratitude goes out to my sister and co-author, **CoffeeRanger**! The first draft looked like someone inebriated wrote it, but once she took it in her majestically talented hands, it turned into something that I (and hopefully you will, too!) thoroughly enjoyed and LOVED! :-D

 **Cloudoffeathers** \- Oh, I'm so sorry! :'( It's my fault. It takes me way too long to update that people are forgetting stuff. So, in Chapter 2, Peter tells us of how Edmund took a tesserae behind his back, despite having sworn on their father's grave that he wouldn't. It might seem a bit callous of Peter to give Ed the cold shoulder for a year just because of that. Luckily, **CoffeeRanger** immediately saw through the heart of the problem (both from a logical storytelling standpoint and where our version of Peter might be coming from) and wrote a COMPLETED story entitled **"A Brother's Betrayal"**. It's a heartrending masterpiece centered around the time our brothers Leonidas started to become estranged. I HIGHLY recommend that you check it out. :)

 **Aslan's Daughter -** I am so glad you think so! Thank you so much for being a constant reviewer. None of you has to do that and I certainly don't review some of the most brilliant stories on this site chapter after chapter, but your reviews are always lovely and they bless me as soon as I read them. I hope you like this chapter! :)

 **DaughterofEve3** \- Ahhh... I am so sorry, my friend! I know we should be back to Lucy by now, but this point of view begged to be written. I hope you enjoy it nonetheless, and I look forward to reading your new work! I promise to do so as soon as I am able. :)

-oOo-

 **Chapter Twelve: Hadassah and Helen**

There was only one other time in my life when I'd run this fast, and that was back when my name was _Hadassah_ Bint _* Kidrash_ , not Helen Leonidas. I was running away from my family then, just as I do now. At that time, it was my parents, not the only remaining blood-relative I have left (if the next few weeks go the way I expect— _fear_ —them to). I was running because my parents had degraded the man I loved, not because they wanted to throw themselves into a fight that could cost them their lives.

I originally came from District 4—a gorgeous, sun-kissed land of yellow sands stretching as far as the eye could see. A cradle of luxury perfumes, prized oils, precious ores, gaily-painted brick houses, and dogged slaves. I was born of a man and a woman who, because they had "Tarkaan" and "Tarkheena" in their names, never wanted for anything. They passed that blessing, or curse depending on how you saw it, onto me.

There had been soft, white bread and imported cheese or hot soup to go with the bread at every waking moment. Bowls of fruits, rosewater tea, and many other treats were available whenever I wished for them. I had a servant girl who was ready and waiting to do whatever I wished (she would even rub my feet while I ate if I asked for it). One of my absolute favourite things in the house, though, was a small contraption that sat on my bed stand. My parents had gotten it for me for my 16th birthday. It was imported from District 3 and played either music or news from all twelve Districts (the fact that I can't remember exactly what this technology is called is a testament to how removed my current life is from my opulent past).

I almost always opted for the news, even though it broke my heart to hear of the poor illegal "Crossers" from bordering districts. They were always punished by either a visit to the whipping posts of the square or to the gaol for trying to live off of District 4's alms. I didn't care much for the music the contraption could play. Most of the singers were from the Capitol. I cared not for either their lyrics (if the hubris that bled through the words could be called that) nor the synthetic, overproduced, musical accompaniments.

There were a few times, though, that I had elected to play some of the music during my breakfast. It was a meal I often shared with my servant, Alionah. We had a wonderful time poking fun at the singers for their ridiculous accents.

Of course, at first, we had not shared such good times. Alionah had insisted it wasn't her place. That she would get in trouble for daring to eat with a Tarkheena.

I had scoffed at that. "I am no higher in stature than you, my dear Alionah, as you are no lower than I."

I would have to repeat the reminder many times growing up. Usually it ended with me playfully throwing either a grape or a hairpin or earring at her. Not to degrade her, but because I somehow never deemed it "important enough" to retrieve the objects and knew they always made it to one of the servant families who needed the extra funds. Then I would request that we move on to talk about Artem, the fellow servant boy Alionah loved.

It was around that time that my dreams began to take shape. I never coveted the amphora of perfumes, or the most beautiful clothes that money could buy, nor even the most extravagant coming-of-age party such as my peers asked their parents for. What I wanted was nothing more than to find the same kind of love Alionah had found in Artem. Day in and day out, I had prayed to… _someone_ to grant my wish. I couldn't believe in Tash – the god of my fathers and District. He was too distant, too cold. In my mind, there was no way he could truly exist, despite the words of my parents. My soul begged for more.

_oOo_

It would be a few more years until my prayers were answered. My mother and father had just returned from District 12. They had been strangely glowing and animated after having been to what they called "the poorest and most disgusting of all the Districts." Apparently, they had sought out the place after hearing from some dealers on the black market that the most talented of all furniture crafters lived there. I had doubted the report at first. How could men of such repute come from such a dreary place? My doubts were put aside, however, once I met them.

What first drew my attention was their looks. One of the men had light brown hair with either hazel or deep green eyes. They changed even as I looked at them depending on the way the sunlight hit them. He was tall – not so tall as to look intimidating like most District 4 men – but a comforting sort of tall. Though he'd had nothing on his person other than a thin grey shirt, ragged brown trousers, and a box of tools which seemed fit for carpentry, he stood with dignity and grace.

It was the other man, though, that was the more curious of the two to me. His hair was the color of corn; his eyes as blue as the sky, and his complexion as fair as my own (which had been untouched by the sun all my days). I had seen plenty of men not unlike the one with the toolbox. However, the yellow-haired one almost seemed like a character in one of my fantasy books.

When Yellow Hair (which was what I fondly called him in my mind back then) turned his eyes to meet my curious gaze, I felt the irrational impulse to look down. Perhaps it was the instant heating of my cheeks, which would have made them the color of a peeled tomato. Whatever the reason for my impulse, I hadn't dared pick my head back up and look at him after that first glance.

They had only been scheduled to be there for a few weeks. Just enough time to finish a dining room table and wardrobe for my parents. However, that time frame soon turned into a few months once my parents saw the quality of work the two of them did. It seemed as if every day my parents had a new piece they wished the pair to make; they loved the way the handmade pieces made our house one of the most luxurious in District 4. I had even heard my mother mention to my father that our house was beginning to rival the Tisroc's (may he live forever).

It was in the space of the three months they spent in my house that I had come to know them. The dark-haired man with the toolbox was Liam Pevensie. He was the "master craftsman." It was he who designed the furniture pieces and completed the most intricate work. The blond who had originally drawn my attention was his best friend and assistant, Adam Leonidas. He did the menial tasks that didn't require as much skill, but that freed Liam's time so he could devote his attention to the aspects that delighted my parents.

Both Liam and Adam had been honest men who believed in hard, honorable toil. There had been many opportunities for them to rob our house for all it was worth, but they hadn't dared touch even a grain unless asked to eat. Liam had instructed and supervised Adam's work in a way far different from what I had seen from my parents' conduct towards our servants. Adam had freely given suggestions that were well and happily received, usually with a friendly slap on his shoulder or raving praise from Liam.

It was easy to see that they were brothers-in-Spirit – content and cheerful so long as they worked side by side. And yet Liam had not been as relatively at ease with their extended stay in my father's household as Adam appeared to be. The name "Evelyn" often escaped his lips.

On the 40th day of their stay, I finally found the courage (emboldened by Alionah's encouragements) to ask Adam if he had a maiden waiting for him back home. My cheeks turned a few shades shy of crimson then, and I'd had trouble holding his gaze.

"No, my lady," Adam answered, without the self-assured smirk and air of self-importance I had come to associate with nearly all the young men in District 4 who stopped by almost every day. "Aslan bless Liam and Eve and their upcoming union, but I have yet to find a girl... a love such as my friends have."

My heart made a great leap at this revelation, but I dared not admit that his desire paralleled my own. It wouldn't have been appropriate. I was scared it would send a message to which Adam might not have had a favourable response. And so, I'd asked instead:

"Who is Aslan?"

Despite the anguish still settling in my heart, a smile crosses my lips as I remember the many conversations this one question led to. By knowing Aslan, I came to know Adam all the better – perhaps had even gotten to know all of him. His voice had always taken a palpable kind of peace every time he'd spoken His name, and this in turn had filled my heart with sheer joy. The more he had spoken, the more I had wanted to know Aslan. To know Adam. At the end of the day I had accomplished just that. And when Adam took my hand in his shaking ones to place a tentative but respectful kiss on my knuckles, I felt what I'd fancied was a lion's roar deep within my soul.

It was because of Adam's teachings that I came to pledge my allegiance to Aslan. And it was because of Aslan's blessings that I came to be baptized as "Helen Leonidas", and finally be wed to this beautiful, kindhearted man worthy to be called "the delight of my eyes." I've never had cause to regret any of those decisions, especially when a couple of years later it brought blond, blue-eyed Peter into our lives. Our kind, loving, rock-solid little man who faced the indigent life with the countenance of a hundred-year-old soul at the age of five. And then there was Edmund—the one to take after my Calormene roots, if only in appearance. Like his older brother, he was kind and loving, his inner-strength a stark contrast to his physical weakness.

Our Lionheart and Raven, sharing so little in looks but so much in spirit (much like Liam and Adam).

Indeed, there was no cause for regret… until today.

-oOo-

The tree line near the fence that separates District 12 from the surrounding wood comes into view. I stumble to a stop next to a thick oak whose limbs seem to reach the heavens. Falling to my knees, I gasp for breath in and around sobs.

 _Aslan, why? Why Peter? Why Edmund? Wasn't it enough that You took Adam from me? Must You also take my boys? Must I lose_ everything _?_

I never minded giving up my childhood. Once my parents found out about Adam's and my attraction to each other, they couldn't get him out of the house fast enough. However, I couldn't stay there after that. Not with the roar of Aslan in my ears, and the soft voice of the man I loved in my mind. And so, I resolved to leave the luxury and safety of my father's house and followed Adam back to District 12. And as I had told him many times throughout the years to follow, I was happier in our simple house with him and our boys than I ever had been in the middle of the excess and overindulgence my parents delighted in.

Now, however, I can't help but long for the confines of my old life. Had Adam and I been able to stay, had my parents been understandings instead of harsh as they had been, our life would have been drastically different. Adam would still be alive – as the son-in-law of a Tarkaan, he would have been given one of the safest jobs in District 4. Nor would I be in danger of losing both of my sons.

Tears slip down my face as I think of what my sons' lives would have been had I stayed. Edmund would not have had to live in fear of his life for his entire existence. Even if had he been born with his conditions, my position as a Tarkheena would have been enough to cover him. Peter would not have had to slave away each day in the mines. He could have stayed in school, gotten an excellent job, and risen to a position of power (as a boy of his magnificence should).

Neither one of them would be anywhere near the Games if I were still a Tarkheena. While not exactly legal, those in charge of the records turned a blind eye to names and ages if enough money was passed along. If I were still in District 4, Edmund would be with me and Peter right now. And Peter… Peter would not be thinking of throwing his life away in a desperate attempt to save his brother.

 _Aslan! Please, don't let him do this! PLEASE!_

 **"What ails you, Helen? Am I not enough? Have you so little faith in Me?"**

I startle at the sound of a quiet voice calling to me. It sounds as if it's coming from right next to me. When I turn to look, however, there's no one there.

 **"Do not fear."**

A flood of a sweet scent I'm unable to identify surrounds me as the voice continues. " **I have heard your cry and the cries of your sons. Be at peace. All will be well**." *****

"How!" I cry, unable to help sounding cross, even though it is difficult to be _truly_ cross at such a beautiful voice speaking so lovingly to you.

A strong yet soothing gust of wind envelops me. If I still had any of my Calormene sensibilities, I would go so far as describe the feeling as the poets might: _like the arms of nature taking me to its embrace_. And then, as if the wind has opened my eyes anew, I see two things I didn't notice in my desperation to run away from my grief.

First, the people of my district are looking at me from afar as if I have gone mad in my grief. Elderly women and mothers alike cried openly, the agony of my children at the Reaping ceremony still fresh in their minds; others just look terrified—of the middle-aged woman pawing at the ground and then shaking her fists in the air (or at least that's what it probably looks like from the outside looking in).

The second, more baffling thing is something of a nightmare. I'm not certain if anyone else can see it from a distance, but a few paces from where I stand are two snakes. Two snow-white, beady-eyed snakes with a smattering of winter-blue scales in their slithering bodies. Round and round they crawl, forming a moving ring about a frail, seemingly injured raven that is trying, but failing, to fly for his life.

My heart feels as if it's being torn from my chest. A _raven_. I pick up a huge rock at the base of the oak tree and get off my knees, meaning to fling it at the vile creatures threatening the helpless bird.

 **"Peace,"** says the voice with a shocking hint of a roar. The rock tumbles out of my hands as I jerk in surprise. " **This raven is in My keeping."**

I dare not trust such a whimsical notion and try to pick up the rock again, but just as I wrap my fingers around it, another creature comes into view. It's smaller than I've always imagined it would be and has no brownish-red mane round its head, but big enough (and magnificently golden!) even for my spectators to see from a distance. _Yet why am I the only one who seems to be seeing and hearing all these things? Have I gone truly mad?_

The lion, or lion cub, bounds into the snakes' view, effectively breaking the ring surrounding the raven as their attention is shifted to the newcomer instead. My chest squeezes painfully once more, for this little lion is so brave, but so brash and so... _young_. How can one cub defeat two cunning snakes?

No sooner than I ask this question that the cub is roaring like a full-grown beast, standing on its hind legs, and then dropping its forepaws with all its might as the serpents slink forward with vicious speed. The venomous pair are dead before the weakened raven could hop away and eventually fall on its injured wing at my feet, their heads crushed underneath the cub's mighty paws.

I cover my mouth with trembling hands, unable to do anything but watch as the dark bird flops feebly on the ground, its eyes looking up at me, imploring my aid.

Tears fall from my eyes once more, but I swipe hastily at them, nodding all the while as realisation slams me in the chest like a swelling tide.

 _It's not a false hope, Mum. I_ will _get Edmund out of there. I will_ save _him._

"I understand, Aslan. I understand now," I say with a shaky smile, bending down to scoop the raven up off the ground. I walk several steps to meet the anxious-looking lion cub (though it showed no hint of apprehension while facing the white serpents) and place the bird on its back. It finds its balance and settles there like it's the most natural thing in the world, and the cub walks with such care and grace, mindful so as not to jostle its wounded charge.

They walk away from me towards the wood, not once looking back to say good-bye.

" **Because it doesn't have to be good-bye** _,"_ a voice in my head supplies, a hint of a laugh in its timbre.

With feet heavy from the strain of running, and a heart light with understanding and acceptance, I make my way back home. Back to my Peter. Back to my beloved son. The sound of a great lion's delighted purr trailing in my wake.

-oOo-

Aslan's words to Helen were adapted from **Genesis 21:17*** **.** To quote CoffeeRanger, _"the despair Hagar was feeling at that moment seemed so similar to Helen's here, God's promise just fit this situation so well."_

On Helen's Calormene/old name, once again, I quote my co-author: _"Bint* is the Arabic word for "daughter". In both Hebrew and Arabic, it is common to be called after your father. So, for Arabic, you would say I am (name) bint (your father's name). Because the Calormenes seem to be heavily influenced by Middle Eastern cultures, I figured using bint as one of Helen's last names would be a cool nod to that."_

So, guys... What say you about our decision to make our brothers Leonidas's mother Calormene? To be honest, at first it wasn't so much due to a desire to flesh out the different cultures in Narnian canon, as it is a silly (according to me - but "cool" according to CoffeeRanger) idea that came about from the fact that I see Edmund ( _physically_ at least) as being very much like Skandar Keynes, who played Edmund Pevensie in all three Disney/Walden Media films. A little fun fact: Keynes is apparently half-Middle Eastern, and I don't know about you guys, but if you ask me, The Calormen and Tashbaan that I read in **The Horse and His Boy** seem to have heavily Middle Eastern aesthetics/influences. So I thought, _if Edmund (Keynes) looks Calormene (Middle Eastern), then at least one of his parents must be Calormene! And since we've already established that Peter and Adam (the brothers' father) are practically twins, then maybe we can make Helen Calormene._

I _sincerely_ hope none of you guys think the artistic liberties we took for our version of Calormen (i.e., comparisons/subtle references to Middle Eastern culture) is racist. If anyone got offended by this then please, blame me. Making Helen of Calormene descent is my idea, CoffeeRanger just thought there was nothing wrong with the story we're trying to convey, and truly, it is not our intention at all to come off as racist. I wouldn't dream of it, especially when (1) my grandfather is part Arabic as well, and (2) when we realised Skandar Keynes is half Middle-Eastern, both CoffeeRanger and I were like, OH MY! That's so cool! And indeed, we think the Middle East has beautiful people and culture. It's just sometimes, the bad stuff are the only things that make it to the local news, and I really do think that's a pity.

That being said, please let us know what you think (be it good or bad stuff)! This has been really, really fun to write. We hope you enjoy it, and find it heartwarming at the same time. And if you guys just want to vent about the fact that plenty of critics thought poor Jack (C.S. Lewis) was racist for writing The Horse and His Boy, please do so! We'd love to hear what you think about this issue as well. And oh, if you guys have a different headcanon for what Edmund looks like, please go on imagining his appearance as you please. As for me, I think Keynes is a great Edmund, and quite deserving of being associated with him outside of the films. Actually, all the kids/adults to ever play Edmund were really, really good (except the voice actor in the Focus on the Family radio dramas - the one who played adult Edmund in HHB. I'm sorry :'( I'm not a fan of that at all).

Until the next chapter (which I hope wouldn't take as long to be published. :'(), dear readers! To God be the glory for ever and ever!

 _ **"And God heard the voice of the boy, and the angel of God called to Hagar from heaven and said to her, "What troubles you, Hagar? Fear not, for God has heard the voice of the boy where he is." - Genesis 21:17**_


	13. Tears and Fears Come in the Morning

So...

It has been an _inordinate_ amount of time since the last update. I feel like you guys are getting tired of my apologies, but it's all I have. **I'm sorry.** **CoffeeRanger** has nothing to do with the criminal amount of time it takes for King and Lionheart to be updated. It's just that... life's been throwing me _spiky, platinum_ curve balls these days, I sometimes marvel how I am still sane.

Can't blame you guys if most of you have already lost interest, but here's the next chapter that my co-author worked really hard on. Thank you so much, my dearest friend! I don't know what I would do without you!

If by some miracle some of you are still here for this journey, but are getting confused/hazy on some details and don't want to read a dozen chapters back, please don't hesitate to send either me or CoffeeRanger a PM/leave a review and we'll give you a brief, spoiler-free explanation. Believe me, I _know_ how long updating intervals can mess with readers' memories, and it's perfectly fine if you don't want to read backwards.

Thank you, thank you so much for all the reviews on the previous chapter! You guys make all the efforts and struggles so worth it. God bless you all!

P.S. If you haven't yet, I highly suggest that you guys read **The Measure of a Sovereign** by **awilliamsbbc.98 -** or anything by her, really! Anything by her or **CoffeeRanger** or **DaughterofEve3**! I always let you guys down with my awful habits as a writer, but I promise their works will give you LIFE! ^_^

-oOo-

CHAPTER THIRTEEN: TEARS AND FEARS COME IN THE MORNING

Waking up the morning after the Reaping is hard. What makes it harder still is for a minute, I _forget_.

Whenever there is enough greens and preserved meat to see us through for a few days, Susan always wakes – always _woke_ – a little later than Mum and me, content to stay cocooned in the warmth of her blankets. I would let her sleep for a few minutes more before crawling to her bed – if I wasn't there already. Though she claimed we were both getting too big to share a bed, she never turned me away when I asked to share with her.

I sit up in bed, wanting to do the same thing that morning. What greets me, however, isn't the sight of a breathing, stirring lump on the bed. What I see instead is an empty bed – still pristinely made from when Susan had gotten up the previous morning.

Tears run down my cheeks. What am I supposed to do without my sister? I have never lived a moment in my life without her there – whether in person or in spirit. She is my best friend, my confidant, the second mum who is every bit as beautiful and full of grace as my first and actual one.

 _Aslan let her be okay. Give her comfort today and strengthen her. Please keep her safe. Keep Edmund safe as well. Wrap them both in Your paws and bring them home to us._

I feel slightly guilty praying for Him to keep them safe. There are 22 other contestants in the Games. They all need to be kept safe. They all _should_ be safe. But I don't know them. I _know_ Ed and Susan. More than that, though, I _love_ them.

Taking a deep breath, I wipe the tears from my face and get out of bed. After washing my face and getting dressed, I head downstairs. Mum is sitting at the table, nursing a cup of tea that no longer has steam rising from it. She holds her arms out to me when she sees me standing in the doorway. I rush to her side, laying my head on her shoulder.

"How are you doing?" She asks quietly.

I shrug, tears coming once again to my eyes. This time, I refuse to let them fall. "I forgot at first, when I woke up. It hurt… not seeing her on her bed," I take a deep breath, "but Aslan said she is in His keeping. We…we just have to have faith, right?"

I glance up to see Mum smiling softly at me. It's not one of her amused smiles, though. It is a smile that is attempting to hide great pain. Her eyes swim in it – showing the anguish in her heart. An anguish that is mirroring the one I am attempting to ignore in my own.

"Just so, Lucy," she answers, brushing a hand through my hair. "Just so." Her words are encouraging, but her tone is not. It is a far cry from the confidence she had exuded when we went to visit Susan yesterday.

The concern in my stomach spikes at hearing it. I place my hand on her kneecap. _Please, Aslan, strengthen Mum. Give her the same confidence You are giving me. Let her know that Susan will be all right._ Please.

Breakfast is quiet all morning. It normally is – I have to eat quickly in order to get to school on time, and both Susan and Mum have work to get to. But even so, it has always been a comfortable quiet.

Today, however, it is depressing – a stark reminder that our family is not whole and may never be whole again.

 _Don't think like that._ I admonish myself. _Aslan is protecting her. He promised to bring her back to us._

Just as I am finishing up my breakfast, a knock sounds at our door.

"I'll answer it. You finish your breakfast," I tell Mum, when I see her shoulders slump. We have many friends and acquaintances in the village. One of them has probably come to offer their condolences.

I rush to the front door and open it. My eyes widen in surprise when I see Peter standing on our front step. His hair is wild, looking more like Edmund's wind-blown nest of hair than his own well-kept one. His eyes are red-rimmed but clear, and he stands straight. He has seen better days, but he is a stark contrast to the Peter I left at the Reaping yesterday.

He seems surprised to see me as well but recovers quickly. _Were you expecting Susan to open the door, like she usually does—_ did?

"Good morning, Lucy," he says, his ever-present smile a mere shadow of what I am used to seeing.

Both he and Edmund have always had an impalpable yet deep aura of maturity about them, almost like they are the same age as our parents, not the man-child that they are. But today, right in this moment, Peter looks _decades_ older than Mum. What's worse is that the aging happened overnight. He looks painfully tired as a result, and in need of a hearty meal. Not that he would agree to have a second breakfast in our kitchen (if he even ate before coming here). The people of District 12 are weird about accepting food from their neighbors, even though most are so willing to lay down their lives for others should there be a need.

All these physical manifestation of inner turmoil, and he is _not_ the one headed for the Hunger Games. Is Edmund the same, or worse? Is Susan? And what of me… Am I… as _heartbreaking_ a sight?

"Good morning, Peter." I bite my lip before I ask him all these questions he doesn't have answers for, taking a step forward. "How are you?"

He shrugs. "All right, I guess. It – it was a hard night. And morning. I sat at the table and Mum had three cups of tea for—" he gives his head a little shake, "anyway, how are you and your mother?"

I copy his shrug. "We're as well as we can be. This morning was–is–difficult. We're trying to keep strong and to trust." I won't mention in Whom, not out in the open, but I know that Peter understands.

"I actually need to talk to you about _that_. Do you have time this morning to go out?" Peter nods his head towards the woods.

I lick my lips. The day after the Reaping is always a "holiday," if one can call it that. The Capitol gives families time to grieve or collapse in gratitude that their loved ones have been spared once more, before demanding that we get on with our lives. So, I don't need to be in school. But I'm not sure if Mum needs me.

"I have to check with Mum. Susan—" I swallow hard, "Susan usually helps her during the day, so she might need me. Please, come in." I step out of the doorway and allow him to enter the house, then close the door behind us.

I let him lead the way into the kitchen where Mum has finished up her meal and is cleaning up the few breakfast dishes.

"Who was at the door, Lucy?" she asks without turning around.

"It was Peter, Mum."

At Peter's name, Mum turns around.

He gives a small, awkward wave. "Hi, Aunt Evelyn."

"Peter, come here." She holds out her arm and they hug, gently laying his head on her shoulder. "I am so sorry, Peter. How are you and your mother?"

He squeezes her hard and then backs out of her arms. "Mum's taking it hard. Ed was never –" He sighs, "Neither of them were ever supposed to be chosen." He squares his shoulders. "But they are in Aslan's paws, which is the safest place they could ever be."

Mum nods, but it is not as whole-hearted as usual. "Is there something you need, Dear?"

"I actually need to borrow Lucy for a bit, if you don't need her. Our larders are getting low. Ed usually comes hunting with me…"

Mum nods. "Of course. I don't need Lucy. You two go on. Be safe. _Please_. Neither your mother nor I could stand it if something were to happen to you two as well."

"I'll keep her safe, Aunt Evelyn. We'll be back before lunch, promise."

He gives her one more hug and then we head to the front door. I pull my shoes on, and we head out. It doesn't take us long to reach the secluded area of the fence where I hide my bow and arrows high up in the branches of the maple that spreads its limbs over the fence. It is but the work of minutes for me to grab it and for both of us to drop down on the other side.

"Are you really doing okay?" I ask after a few minutes. I put a hand on Peter's arm and stop – forcing him to stop as well.

This Peter is such a drastic change from the Peter of yesterday, I don't trust it. My anxiety is still threatening to overtake me at any minute, even though I have Aslan's promise that things will work out. I can only imagine what he's going through.

"I'm fine, Lucy. Or as fine as I can be. Aslan spoke to me yesterday, and it's helped. I have to trust Him."

I squeeze his arm. "What did Aslan tell you?"

"That's actually what I needed to talk to you about. Come on. We're almost at the lake, we can rest and talk there."

We aren't "almost" at the lake, but I don't press the issue. During the 45-minute walk, all I can think about is Susan. What is she doing? How is she feeling? Is she scared? Is she being cared for? Edmund is there, and he promised to look out for her, but Susan is stubborn. Would she allow him to help her?

We used to have fun together… all four of us… before the mines killed Uncle Adam, and then Dad. Our mothers, who used to be the closest of friends, started to drift apart unintentionally, consumed by the grief of living life with only half their hearts, until it was time to rise again and live for their children. At that point everything's just been so hectic that all of us—not just them—have failed to realise, to _acknowledge,_ that their friendship has not been the same since.

Obviously, there is no animosity or anything of that sort between our families. It's just… not been the same since The Debilitating Heartsickness of several years past. Before the Reaping, Peter, Edmund, Susan and I were practically strangers with a great amount of respect and concern for one another. Now, it's like we—or at least Peter and I, right at this very moment—are slowly going back to being childhood friends again. I can see the same happening to Aunt Helen and Mum soon. I just wish it didn't take being heavily involved in the Games by extension of Su and Ed for things to start being this way again.

Finally, we make it to the lake and sit down on a rock overhang that lets us dangle our feet in the water. Peter takes a deep breath and looks me in the eyes.

"He called me 'Magnificent King' and told me it was time for me and the Valiant Queen to look to the Western Wood."

I frown. "Who's the Valiant Queen?"

"I have no idea. I don't even know why he called me king." Peter bows his head. "I'm the farthest thing from that."

"I don't agree." I say, leaning on his shoulder. "I think if anyone deserves to be king – or is qualified to be king – it's _you_. But why would Aslan direct you to the Western Wood? There's nothing there. Unless you count the animals, and that elegant iron lamppost between the wood and Lantern Waste that the thieves have been trying in vain to uproot for years, but I don't think they'll be any good."

Peter chuckles. "They might. Aslan's done weirder." He stared out across the lake.

After a few minutes of silence, I take a deep breath. "How – do you think they're okay?" I sit up straighter, so I can look at him. "Susan and Edmund, that is. Ed promised he'd look out for Susan."

"Of course, he did." Peter mumbles amusedly under his breath.

I ignore it and continue. "I'm worried that he'll forget to take care of himself. That Susan won't let him help her. She can be so stubborn." I wrap my arms around myself, chasing away the chill I feel that is out of place with the warmth of the morning. "And what happens when they get to the Capitol? Aslan promised me everything would be all right, but how? It's the Games; it's the Capitol." I squeeze harder, all my fears and insecurities exploding into full force once more.

Peter pulls me closer, tucking me into his side and running a hand through my hair, "Yes, it is the Games. And, yes, it is the Capitol. But He is Aslan. If He can sing the world into being, He can more than protect Susan and Edmund from those who would do them harm. Have you forgotten the story of Haneeah, Mrishrael, and Azarah? If Aslan can protect them from the fires of Tash and deliver them from the midst of his great temple, then He can bring our siblings home safe from the Games. We just have to trust."

"I know." I answer. "But it's hard. I – I'm scared." I admit in a small voice.

Peter rubs his hand up and down my arm, but before he could answer, a crashing sound disturbs the bushes behind us. We both jerk to our feet and turn to face the woods. I reached out for Peter's arm, grabbing on to it.

Animals are never that loud. The only thing that would make that much noise are people. And the only people who would be outside the fence are Peacekeepers.

 _Oh, Aslan, help us!_

 _-_ oOo-

 _Uh-oh_. Looks like our dear Peter and Lucy are in trouble...

Thank you for reading! To God be the _glory!_

 ** _I have told you these things, so that in me you may have peace. In this world you will have trouble. But take heart! I have overcome the world. - John 16:33_**


	14. Strangers in the Wood

All the love and gratitude go to my co-author and dearest Sister-in-Christ, **CoffeeRanger,** without whom this story would be in complete shambles. This chapter and the next are 100% hers - products of her unparalleled talent, hard work, and beautiful heart. Know that I am eternally grateful and are always praying for you and yours, my friend, and would be completely _lost_ without your guidance and friendship.

The egregiously long wait is courtesy of _Yours Truly_ , and for that I sincerely apologize. Life has just been... funny... in a _humorless_ way lately, and I'm still sunken deep in some dark lake. But don't you fret, CoffeeRanger's got ya covered with the next chapter at the ready - I'm thinking of putting it up in a few days or so. And I swear, even though it doesn't seem like it, I'm doing some writing in my head more often than is humanly possible for someone so.. _down_.

Thank you so much to each and everyone who still read and review! You guys bless me and soothe some of the pain. You can't begin to understand how much I love and appreciate you all! And I believe I speak for my co-author in this regard as well.

All right. You've waited long enough, so...

* * *

 **CHAPTER FOURTEEN: Strangers in the Wood**

I look around, my eyes scanning our surroundings, barely breathing as if the slightest whisper would do us in. Lucy and I are sitting in an area that doesn't provide any cover or hiding spots. The nearest trees are 50 feet away to our right.

The crashing gets even closer.

I stand up – Lucy following. Gently, I push her towards the trees. "When I tell you, run as hard as you can for the trees."

Lucy grips my arm, "What about you?"

A wave of memories crashes over me at her tone. Edmund used it all the time when he thought he was getting more of something than he should, or when he thought I wasn't taking care of myself as I ought.

 _What about you, Pete? Aren't you hungry?_

 _What about you, Peter? I'm not tired. I'll take care of the dishes._

Even worse was how he had been during the past year.

 _Peter? I know you don't want to talk to me, and that's all right. But what about you? You're still recovering. I'll take care of this. You go to bed. You need your sleep._

Guilt wells in me once again. I won't fail Lucy like I failed Edmund.

I squeeze her arm. "I'll be fine. You just worry about you, all right? Once it's safe, you head back, understood? Stay close to home. Do what you normally do. But only when it's safe. Ready?" I duck, grabbing her weapons from where they lay on the ground next to us. Not giving her time to argue, I push them into her hands. "Go." I give her a slight but firm push in the direction she should run.

The crashing in front of us is getting closer and closer. I spare one second to ensure that Lucy is continuing into the trees. Then I take off as well. Only I don't run towards the trees she is heading towards. I run toward the people coming toward us.

I will keep Lucy safe. I won't fail this time.

Every second I keep expecting to see Peacekeepers surrounding me. But none come. Instead, as I charge through another bunch of bushes, I see a flash of colour. I try to stop so quickly I'm thrown into whatever it is. Screams fill my ears as we collide, tumbling to the ground.

"Please, _no_!"

My momentum carries me away from whatever the thing is. I tuck into a ball, using the momentum to push myself onto my feet. I whirl to find… the form of a young girl curled on the ground. Her head is tucked close to her knees and her arms cover the top of it. She is shaking violently.

Before I can move to see if she's okay, another shout echoes through the forest.

"Leave her alone!"

I turn to face the new person only to be knocked to the ground once more. Fists begin hitting my chest and arms. They don't hurt, most annoy thanks to my coat, but the fact that this whole situation has happened at all is enough to make me freeze for longer than I normally would. Finally, my brain kicks back into gear.

The next time the fists come down to hit me, I grab them. "Whoa! Stop! I'm not going to hurt you. Calm down."

The other person pulls against me a few times before settling down. Now that they are not trying to beat me, I can tell that my assailant is a girl. She's not old – maybe Susan's age or a year younger. I wait a few more seconds then slowly release her hands.

"Who-who are you?" she gasps, stumbling back a few steps.

"My name is Peter. What are you doing out here?" Now, granted, I don't know everyone who lives in District 12. But I'm pretty sure I've never seen either girl anywhere in town.

She ignores me, instead kneeling to check on the first person I had run into.

"Lynn? Lynn, are you okay?"

The second girl is much younger than the first. Even younger than Lucy. She straightens a bit, but quickly buries herself in the older girl's side.

"Please, don't hurt us! Please!" She cries. She is shaking so hard I can barely hear her.

"Hey," I say softly. I kneel to be less threatening. "I'm not going to hurt you – either one of you. What are you guys doing out here?"

The older girl glares at me, "Stop lying! Just take us in. It's not nice to draw it out."

I frown. "I'm not taking you anywhere. I'm not a Peacekeeper. I'm just like you two."

The younger girl – Lynn – turns to stare at me. "You're running too?" Her face is smeared with dirt and tears and other smudges of things I can't identify. The coat she is wrapped in is threadbare, especially around the elbows and is stained so much I can't tell the original colour.

"Lynn! Hush!"

I shake my head. "It's okay. I figured that you both weren't from around here. I'm not running. I'm out here finding food." I shift my quiver and bow so they're easier to see. "Where are you two from?"

The older girl swallows. "I'm Sunny. This is Lynn. We're from District 7."

"You two are a long way from home." I whistle. "Why did you run?"

"We –"

Sunny is interrupted by a shout from behind us. "You _idiot_!"

The girls shrink back, Lynn cowering against Sunny. I turn to see Lucy stalking towards me, her face red with anger.

"You said you'd be right behind me – not that you would throw yourself at the danger!"

"Lucy, calm down." I raise my hand. "I'm fine. Nothing happened."

"Yes, and you don't have yourself to thank for that!" she snaps back. Then she turns her attention to the girls behind me. As soon as she sees the terror on their faces, her own expression softens. She drops down next to me.

"Hello. I'm Lucy. Sorry if my shouting scared you. Sometimes it's the only thing this lummox will hear."

Sunny offers a tentative smile. "I-It's okay."

"Lucy, this is Sunny, and this is Lynn. They're from District 7."

"Oh! You two must be exhausted! How long have you been out here?"

"Three weeks," Sunny answers. "We couldn't – they were going to split us apart. We had to leave."

"Daddy died," Lynn whispers. "The mean lady said Sunny wasn't old enough, that she couldn't take care of both of us."

Sunny tightens her arms around Lynn. "I wasn't going to let them separate us. We're all we have left."

My heart breaks at the sorrow on their faces. "I'm glad you were able to get out."

"When was the last time you ate?" Lucy asks, her eyes and mouth pinched with sympathy.

"Two mornings ago." Sunny swallows. "We were able to find some nuts."

I shake my head. "That won't do. Come on. Lucy, will you get some things for them?"

"Of course. Here." She passes me her bow and the arrows from her quiver. "Do you have –"

"Yes, it's in my pack," I say, pulling out the flint and tinder box that Mr. Nicholas had given me a few years ago. "I'll meet you back at the lake."

"Is it okay?" Sunny asks as Lucy runs off. "Is it safe?"

"As safe as you get out here. The Peacekeepers never come out this far. Come on. Lucy and I will have food for you two started here shortly."

I guide them back to where Lucy and I had been sitting just a short time ago. They sit shoulder to shoulder. Sunny's gaze flits from place to place, never staying still for very long, always looking for danger, and Lynn stays tucked against her side, one hand clenching Sunny's coat tightly as if she's scared that at any moment she will be pulled away. I busy myself with building a fire for when Lucy returns.

"Lucy won't be very long," I reassure them. "She's really good at finding things to eat out here. Her mum's a healer so she knows her stuff."

Lynn gazes at the kindling I had gathered as the sparks I am making take. "Is – is it safe to have a fire?"

I nod. "We're all safe out here. The Peacekeepers never leave town. We don't have to worry."

"How can you be sure?" Sunny questions, eyes slanting in apprehension, her tone sharp.

Who can blame her? Three weeks on the run – with a younger sister to watch out for – is enough to drive anyone to paranoia. Add on top of that hunger – I don't doubt that she's been giving Lynn most of the food they've been able to find. I'm surprised she's still standing, honestly.

"I've been hunting out here for six years and have never seen one Peacekeeper. The Peacekeepers here are lazy. They don't like doing any work they don't absolutely have to. It's okay. You can relax. You're safe. Lucy and I won't let anything happen to you."

Slowly – oh, so slowly – I watch as the tension leaks out of Sunny as the moments pass. As that happens, Lynn becomes more and more relaxed as well. By the time I've got the fire nice and roaring, they are blinking their eyes more and more and leaning more heavily against each other. Lynn looks seconds from sleep. Sunny keeps forcing her eyes to stay open, opening them wide for a few seconds before gravity begins to win once more.

"It's okay," I whisper, not wanting to startle Lynn. "You can sleep if you want. I'll keep watch."

Lynn starts, using the hand not wrapped around Lynn to rub her eyes. "No. I'm okay. Thanks, though."

I frown, but don't argue. I can't blame Sunny for not trusting me. If I was in her position, I wouldn't trust anyone either.

Lucy comes back around fifteen minutes later. Her arms and quiver are full of wild asparagus, cattail heads and roots, dandelion greens, and several leeks. She's also grabbed the old pot that we store on the other side of the lake for days when hunting takes longer than normal. She dumps everything by the fire then smiles at Sunny.

"Everything might be a little bland, but these are all I could find. I'm sorry we don't have more to give, but if you eat enough, you'll fill right up, and there's more where this came from if we run out."

Sunny shakes her head, tears in her eyes. "It's more than we expected. Thank you – both of you."

I smile. "It's our pleasure. We'll have this ready in just a bit."

Granted, it takes longer than "just a bit," but eventually Lucy and I have everything cooked and ready to be eaten. Sunny wakes Lynn up, and they tuck into the food hesitantly at first. A few mouthfuls later though, they are eating as if their lives depend on it. Which, for the last three weeks, they probably did.

Finally, they slow down until Lynn is just nibbling on a few cattail roots and Sunny has completely stopped.

"So," I begin looking at Sunny. She looks back at me, her gaze guarded. "Where are you going to?" I wince. That had come out a bit harsher than I intended. "I mean, you can't stay out here indefinitely. Are you planning on trying to sneak into one of the other districts?"

"We're going to District 13!" Lynn pipes up. She bounces a bit in her place next to Sunny, and her eyes light up in a way I haven't seen since we met.

 _District 13 –_ the words echo through my mind. Everyone in all the districts knows the story of 13. Everyone knows how they became almost too powerful. It had been our nuclear district – responsible for weapon production and radioactive substances. The people there had begun rebelling against the directives of the Capitol. They began forming their own laws and customs – ignoring the "thou shalts" from the leaders in the Capitol.

Of course, the Capitol hadn't liked that. And so, late one night in the middle of fall, they had struck. No one is entirely sure what happened that night, but everyone knows what the aftermath was. A new video showing the ruins of the District – the charred homes and smoking remains – is shown each year during the Games. It is to remind us, in addition to watching our children be slaughtered, what happens to those who dare act out against the Capitol.

"District 13?" Lucy says. "There's nothing there. We've all seen the videos. What are you hoping to find?"

Sunny bites her lip.

"Tell them!" Lynn encourages, nudging her sister.

"There are rumors," Sunny begins slowly after a minute. "Whispers all over District 7. They say that there are survivors in 13. That enough of a warning went out before the Capitol got there, that some people were able to make it into the bunkers. Now people say if you can reach 13, the survivors will take you in – hide you. People say it's become a stronghold against the Capitol."

My heart gives a leap at those words. A stronghold against the Capitol? If this is true… Oh, Aslan let it be true! If it is, if I can get there, maybe they can help me. I can't imagine they are good friends of the Capitol. If there are survivors, there couldn't be that many. And they all had to have lost friends and family in the attack all those years ago.

13 was our weapons creator district. Those there had enough pull that the Capitol became scared of them. Did any of those weapons survive? If there were people and weapons, there might be enough to at least start an uprising. They'd have to have ways to keep under the Capitol's radar.

I am pulled from my ruminations by Sunny shifting and a log in the fire breaking apart with a crack. I jump slightly and refocus on the girls sitting in front of me.

"Thank you for the fire," Sunny whispers. "And thank you for the food. But we need to get moving. There's still some daylight and we need to use it."

"Oh, but you can't!" Lucy exclaims.

"Why not?" Sunny snarls. The defensiveness and fear at the beginning of our meeting are back in her eyes.

"It's almost dusk. You won't get very far. And you are both worn down. You need a place to rest and regain your strength before you continue. As Peter has probably told you, the Peacekeepers here don't care what we do – not really, as long as we don't attract their notice. We have –" she swallows. "We have an empty bed at my house that you guys can use – at least for tonight. My mum won't mind having extra guests. She's a healer and never turns anyone away. You'd be warm and safe and could get a full meal."

"There's no danger," I reassure Sunny. "Lucy and I know how to get in and out without notice. You could stay as long as you wanted and then leave when you were ready. If you don't want to stay with Lucy, we have a bed at our house as well. My mum's not a healer, but she's a wonderful cook."

Lynn looks up at Sunny who is biting her lip. "Please, Sunny. It's been forever since we've slept in a bed."

"I don't know. Are you sure it's safe?"

"Perfectly safe. We both go hunting quite regularly," Lucy says with a smile.

We all sit in silence while Sunny thinks. She spends five minutes just looking at Lynn and chewing on her lip. Finally, she takes a deep breath.

"All right. We'll come with you. Thank you for your offer. I know how dangerous it is."

I shake my head. "We don't need thanks. We wouldn't leave you out here."

"Lots of people would," Sunny murmurs.

"But we aren't lots of people," Lucy answers, her smile widening. "It's just the two of us. Now, come on! We'll take you back home now. Maybe we can even get you two a bath."

That gets Sunny's eyes to sparkle.

We make quick work of dismantling the camp. We put out the fire and get rid of the rubbish from the food we have eaten. Then, Lucy and I shoulder our weapons, and we start heading back to town.

* * *

"But God demonstrates his own love for us in this: While we were still sinners, Christ died for us" - Romans 5:8


End file.
